


Catch me low

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bruce Wayne has no limits, Crime Fighting, Daddy!Kink, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Incest Play, Knifeplay, M/M, Mentor/Sidekick, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Post-Death in the Family, Rimming, Scarring, Sparring, Threesome - M/M/M, Training never ends, Violence, cross-dressing, guilt trips, handjobs, universe-hopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-12
Updated: 2008-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 33
Words: 210,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason knows how to make things better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers:** No one and nothing here is mine.
> 
>  **Spoilers/Timeline:** References to various older storylines. Meant to take place not long after "A Death in the Family," or, depending on how you look at it, Red Hood's earlier adventures through the canon I'm not actually reading.
> 
>  **Ratings Note/Warnings:** Sexual content which does and doesn't dovetail with the content some readers may find disturbing. I'm extra serious this time. In fact... Jack suggested that I provide an *extra* warning: If you can't watch [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5sIXUbMgF0) all the way through, this story *might* be a little too fucked for you.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** Jack gave me this idea after reading [Everything awakened](http://teland.com/stories/everythingawakened.html), though this story has nothing to do with the other. There's just something lovely about throwing Jason around the multiverse.
> 
>  **Acknowledgments:** Much love to Jack, Pixie, and Mildred for audiencing and encouragement.

The anomaly closes behind him with a sigh and something like a pop without the fun of it. It makes him need to yawn and force back a pressure headache—there. Gone.

Just like his past.

Jason smiles and checks his pockets reflexively. It's not like he can go back to his base to fill them if he comes up empty on knives or zip strips, but it feels good to do. A nice way to start the night...

Or end it, judging by the sky. Time's different in this universe. He'll have to remember that—

He's not likely to forget.

He heads toward downtown and revels in the fact that it's the real Gotham, with all the buildings still where they should be, all the broken-down tenements still standing for another... oh, call it two and a half years. He revels in those, too, and takes the time to break a few faces—

And ribs—

And collarbones as he goes. Leisurely-like. Nice and easy. Right about now, Bruce is settling in the Cave after *his* night, maybe thinking about the Jason Todd who'd lived and died—and stayed dead. Maybe thinking about doing the sort of things to the criminals of this world that Jason does as a matter of course.

It's not that he hasn't thought about going to him—all it would take was one quick DNA test and Bruce would probably be some variety of all over him, even if he *did* manage to control what he'd liked to call his baser urges. He *could*, and he could explain to Bruce what he already knows, deep down where the kid in him has always lived. It doesn't work his way. It never has, and it never will.

He could *show* Bruce, teach him all the nasty little tricks he'd picked up from Talia's happy fun gaggle of assassins, and then they could *take* this city.

He could do it, and he knows himself well enough to know that a part of him wants it, oh—more than anything. More than fucking *air*.

It's just that that isn't what he's here for. It's not the *plan*—and, he knows, it's a damned *good* plan. Something happened to Bruce long before Jason was born, something fucked up and fucking horrible, and that makes him need people. Trained people, hard people—who are still soft enough to make a space for him, to need *him*.

And right now... well, he's *not* as needy as he's going to get, and it may be a cheap trick to weight the dice, but it's a damned effective way to make sure you win the toss.

Jason has no intention of even coming *close* to a loss for this—

And that means letting Bruce stew for a little while, letting him live with the mistakes he made with Jason, and who knows? Maybe he'll beat himself up some about fucking up with Dick, too.

And in the meantime... well. Jason is going to pull the rug out from under Bruce's great big boots.

Before *Bruce* knows there's a rug there to begin with.


	2. Chapter 2

The nice thing about bearer bonds and carefully crafted false identities is that they lead to having a nice, hefty chunk of cash on hand. Nothing like what Bruce has on tap, but more than enough to buy the old, beat-up gym from a woman with a seriously Gotham lack of interest in asking questions, and more than enough to stock it at speed.

There's a part of him which wants to move on to phase two *now*, but the rest of him knows that the week it takes to get the gym and the loft above it to where he needs it to be is just a drop in the bucket of the time he *does* have. The bucket isn't the *ocean*, but still.

When he's done sweeping away dust and getting the windows to let actual sunlight in, he feels like he might just have himself a home. There are things he still needs—weapons and the like—but his *night-time* labors had given him a line on a nicely independent agent who *will* get him what he needs. The money will run out eventually, but by then he'll have moved to a whole different phase of his plan.

It might even be the *Bruce* phase—

No, he's not thinking about that just yet. He has other things to do. He dresses for the night and gets moving, taking the freshly-painted bike—black will just have to *do*, thank you very much—and giving himself a solid two minutes to wish for something better. He *could've* brought one of his own bikes through the anomaly—hell, he could've stolen one of Bruce's—but the *one* anomaly leading to this particular universe let out on a rooftop, and getting a bike down from there would've attracted way too much attention, and he'd already taken too much time getting ready. He's being *subtle*, which means that this old Harley is both more and less than good enough for his purposes. It's nowhere near cherry—lessening the chance of too *much* attention being paid to it—and it's nowhere *near* cherry—lessening the chance of him being able to beat a speedy retreat should he have to do so.

Still, it gives him that grown-fucking-man feeling which usually means he's about to do something immature, but still feels damned good. He's *not* going to fuck up tonight. He has so much information on his target—

He's never *had* a target with this much information available before. Honestly, he thinks he might be a little *giddy*. And all he has to do is *turn* the little fucker. In the direction—so he'll think, anyway—that he *wants* to go—

And now he's feeling paranoid. All Drake has to do is to go to Bruce or Dick—the way he's *itching* to do right now—and tell them that a scary man calling himself Jason Todd is climbing in people's windows at night and it's game over. Just—

No. No.

He'd known that was a possibility from the jump, and he's got a handle on it. In the end, Drake's just a kid who knows too much. And if he *doesn't* make the right decision, he'll be a kid with the kind of head injury which doesn't lead to trustworthy narratives.

Jason smiles to himself and picks up a little speed, only slowing down when he's a few blocks away. And... it's late. Dawn's coming soon, but Drake has parents who live nice, rich leisurely lives—that much would've been clear by the neighborhood. Drake *himself* might not be sleeping—

And now he's just wasting time.

He hits the rooftops, and gives himself exactly *one* moment to rest his hand against the roof of *the* townhouse, to get the kind of feel for the place which means nothing to every part of him except for *that* one—

And then he's checking the windows. A piece of intel he *hadn't* had, because Talia's hack of Bruce's files was limited to things which didn't touch directly on the—family.

Little stalker *freak* of a pretender—

Jason pastes on a smile when he finds the right window, taking in the neat decor, the empty—and neatly made—bed, the clutch of shadows near the desk. Oh, really.

Jason makes a come-on gesture, and Drake steps out of the shadows... while holding a phone with his finger very *clearly* hovering over the one. Well. Jason tugs off his domino and tosses his hair, raising an eyebrow—

Drake drops the phone *and* his jaw. Point to not changing all that much since his last—and hopefully *last*—trip to Ethiopia.

And now Drake's shaking his head, backing off, going to pick up the phone again—but still looking.

"If I wanted you dead," Jason mouths, as carefully as he can, "you'd *be* dead," he says, and gestures for Drake to open the window.

He gets a frown for his trouble, something that looks more thoughtful and calculating than freaked, which... he can work with that. This whole *plan*—

Later, later.

Drake opens the window and Jason swings inside, clenching and unclenching the fist he was using to hold the line—he'd broken two of those fingers a couple of months ago, and yeah, still feeling it. Yay, adulthood. And...

Up close, Timothy Drake is a scrawny little *nothing* of a kid. Barely five feet tall, and... he looks like a pair of wide blue eyes on a stick. They're not even *pretty* blue eyes—

"Who—who are you," he says, quiet, but not a whisper. The parents are *deep* sleepers, then.

"Who I *look* like, dumbass—" No, be nicer. At least for now. He turns the smack he was aiming at the back of Drake's head to a grip, forcing the kid to look up. "You know who I am."

"You're too old," he says, flat as anything, even though he *looks* like he's feeling his heart try to pound right out of his chest. Fine. Let the kid play it hard.

"Funny things happen when you bounce between universes, kid. In *my* world, I crawled right up out of the grave and had me a couple of years of adventures."

"Years—I. I'm sorry, but that's very difficult to believe—"

"My name is Jason Todd. I used to be Robin with Bruce Wayne, who is Batman. You—well, your name's Tim Drake, and you've been following all of us around for oh, say... four years?"

The blush *takes* the kid's face, and his eyes are back to being wide as hell. Improvement.

Jason nods. "Yeah. Like that. Get some good pictures tonight, did you?"

He fidgets—and stops. "I still can't—I mean, you could be. Um. A shapeshifter. Or something—"

"Who knows as much as *I* do?" Jason shakes his head and lets himself grin a little. It makes the kid swallow. Good. He tugs a little more on Drake's hair. "All right. *Let's* get more personal. Pretty soon after I kicked here, you started thinking about going to *Dick*. About telling him something about going back to Bruce and being Robin again," he says, watching Drake's eyes widen a little more and not thinking—

Not thinking about that one *night* when Bruce had tracked him down after he'd broken Drake's arm and tried ever so fucking *hard* to put things in *perspective* for Jason, tried to make him—fucking *make* him—see Tim fucking Drake as something other than what he was.

Something *better*. But not right now. Oh, no. Right now—he's still *just* a stalker, and—"And you've got one fuck of a hard-on for Dick, don't you?"

Blush, and man, scoring points just shouldn't be this *easy*. *He'd* had a lot more fucking armor when he was Drake's age...

But then, he hadn't had this nice, soft life. Jason shakes him a little by the hair.

Drake—tries—to turn away—

"Nuh-uh. It's talking time, now—"

"What. What do you want," he says, and his voice is flat and *almost* even. Almost—heh. Robin.

"Well, that's just the thing, kid. You're *needed*," Jason says, and raises his eyebrows. "It's time for you to step *up*."

"Step... I don't. I don't understand," Drake says, but his eyes say he's lying. They're wild now, tracking back and forth, searching that brain of his...

And a *big* part of Jason wants to *really* yank on his hair, to tell him to use that so-called detective brain he's supposed to have—fucking A. A kid like *this* figured out the secret? Jason shakes it off internally—

"Um. Jason. What are you... saying?"

Turn, turn, turn. "Batman's all alone now, kid. You can't tell me that escaped your *notice*."

"Well. Yes, but. I think... won't Dick come back? Now that—why aren't *you* going to Bruce? He needs someone, he's—he must be so—ow—"

All right, that was too hard a yank. Stick to the plan. "The anomaly I walked through isn't there, anymore, but there will be others. Things are *real* damned unstable—and some shit's due to go down here that'll make a dead Robin look like *nothing*. Are you listening to me?"

A wince—and a nod. Drake's focusing hard now, listening—and probably looking for the lie. All right.

"In some ways, I'm in my own past right now, and you ought to know all *about* how things like that usually work out—judging by what you've got on those bookshelves—"

And he has to stop, because, if anything, that was the deepest blush *tonight*. For the books? Really? No, more.

"In *any* event—I can't risk Bruce or Dick finding out about me until things settle down a little bit more and I know I won't be changing things too much for the fucking fabric of spacetime to handle. But there's *you*," Jason says, and smiles.

It makes Drake shiver and swallow like Jason is the scariest damned thing he's seen in his life, and—yeah, he can work with *that*, too.

"In my world—my *timeline*—you start training to *be* Robin in a little less than six months—"

"I don't—I can't. I'm not—"

"Stammer *later*, kid—" And tell me all about how that could be so honest when you know it's what you want more than any fucking thing else—no. "There's no time for that, here. No time to *waste*."

"You. You want to start. Training. Me?"

Jason smiles a little wider and lets go of Drake's hair, reaching into his pocket for the little slip of paper with the address of the gym on it. "Memorize it. Flush it. And be there tomorrow after school."

"I can't—I mean. It's not. I'm not *ready*—"

"No, you aren't. You're a pathetic fucking *excuse* of a kid. But you can *be* ready—and you will be."

"I—"

"Unless you *want* Gotham to go to hell?"

Drake blinks at Jason more times than he feels like counting, paper held between his fingertips... he turns it, looks at it, scans it what feels like a hundred times in a second.

Score. "And keep your mouth *shut*," Jason says, and moves to the window—

"Jason, I—um."

He should just leave. He *has* his exit line, and—

And he has it.

He goes.


	3. Chapter 3

He *should* be sleeping—it's fucking *day*, and Drake will *be* here, unless he chickens out—

And the image is right there, the sense memory of a wiry little body against his own, *lifted* against his own while he held a knife to the kid's throat. He hadn't made a sound, then. Just kept trying to get clear and get a shot in of his own. Just—

He'll be here.

Which—Jason's not sleeping. He's gone over and over the equipment Drake won't be good enough to even *look* at for fucking *weeks*, he's checked the evenness of the mats, stared in fucking *despair* at the gi he'd gotten for a Drake who was *bigger* than the one he actually has—

He'll grow *into* it. If he has to force-feed the kid protein shakes and get him HGH on the black market.

Drake is going to *be* worthy enough to be a partner to Bruce, the kind of partner Bruce *really* needs. He can't do it—at this point in his life, he can't see himself being a partner to anyone save all the little voices in his own head—but.

But.

The Drake he knows had barely given Bruce six months of Robin time before he was flitting off on his own. He had a team *before* the Titans, and he'd been all over the fucking world, instead of in Gotham where he *belonged*.

He's going to *teach* this kid Gotham, show him how to love it, how to hate it so much it got under your skin and *stayed* there. And, in return, Drake is going to give *him* the *right* kind of Robin, the kind Dick could never be, the kind Jason had been too scared and fucked-*up* to be.

Yeah.

In the end, he settles for resting by the computers he'd set up a few days ago with the information he'd taken from Talia. He's somewhere between meditation and a doze, and, if necessary, he could *move* in a heartbeat.

But he's drifting now, and mourning a little for the way he hadn't had time to put more of an effort to get Bruce's own files—if never Babs'—before the anomalies had started popping off all over the place. Before he knew what he *had* to do in order to make the world a better—

To *remake* the world, and Talia *and* her father were fucking nutbars, but they had a lot of good ideas. Things he couldn't help but listen to and want—in his *own* way.

This is the way to do it. This—will get him what he needs. What the *world* needs.

Are you sleeping yet, Bruce? Are the nightmares making you sweat through the sheets and tangle yourself up the way you used to?

Do you ever think about the way I taught you that it was okay to turn the heat up and just sleep on *top* of the sheets?

Are you naked? Hungry? Wanting me?

Fucking *wait* for it, then, you perverted asshole. Just—fucking wait.

He's coming up out of his doze on his own when the doorknob rattles, and really, he's going to have to do something about the fact that there's nothing but a *door* between this place and the world.

Soon.

For now—

He moves to open the door, and there Drake is, shorter than life and twice as terrified, going by the way he's actually *trembling* a little bit.

"Get here sooner tomorrow."

"I—yes, okay. I. I put on workout. Clothes—"

"There's a gi for you over by the bathroom," he says, and points. "Get in here, strip down and put it on."

Drake swallows and moves past Jason without so much as brushing him, looking around as he moves—quickly and quietly—to the bathroom. Jason *wants* to find something else to criticize, but the kid isn't giving him anything, yet. And that's—he has to be a little careful with this. He doesn't *think* Drake is the kind of kid to balk for the sake of balking, but you never really know. He can really put things in the *toilet* if he decides to seek out Bruce or Dick, and it's not like Jason can just kidnap him and keep him locked up here.

Though it's not like he hasn't had that thought.

Jason takes off his shoes and starts stretching casually, and that's how Drake finds him when he comes out with the gi perfectly situated on his small, small frame. Jason sighs to himself. "We'll get you a smaller one soon. For now, show me how you stretch for karate."

"Oh. You—know."

"Yeah, I do. And don't you forget it, kid—I know more about you than your damned mother, and I'll use every last bit of that knowledge if I have to."

Drake stares at him for a long moment, searching and scared.

Jason stares right back—and then taps the watch he isn't wearing.

It's clear that the kid had gone to a *good* dojo, probably the best that money can buy. He knows a great deal of the stretches he needs to, even if he's not getting as much out of them as he could—

A split-kick that had only *just* missed Jason's jaw—

He *will* get more.

Jason pushes and pulls on the kid, waiting for the whimpers and grunts and getting them, letting them guide him—oh, that was a loud one—

"Sorry, I—sorry, I'm just—need a moment—"

Jason checks the kid's quad reflexively and it's as tight as a *rock*, pulled the wrong fucking *way*—he growls and starts working it.

"Ow—I mean, sorry, I'll do better—"

Motherfucking *idiot*—"You're *supposed* to let me know if I take you too *far*, Drake." 

"I don't—I didn't know. What was too far."

Jason—doesn't growl again. Of course he didn't—but. "The *pain* didn't tell you anything?"

And Drake looks like he's about to fucking *cry*—but something tells Jason it doesn't have a damned thing to do with the pain.

Fucking A. "Kid—"

"I just thought—I'm not flexible enough. But I will be. I can keep working—"

"No, you *can't*," Jason says, and keeps working the scrawny little muscle until it starts feeling like it's supposed to. "Not today, anyway. Jesus."

"I'm sorry—"

"Yeah, you *really* are. Stop saying it—and *remember* this little lesson, kid."

"I—I will," Drake says, and when he looks up, there's a promise in his eyes that Jason... really doesn't know *what* the fuck to do with.

Other than using it.

He leaves off the kid's leg and goes through the upper body stretches—a lot more slowly. Now, every time he's about to cross the line, the kid speaks up, quiet and unsure but *there*.

He's not getting what he *wants*, but the foundation is there—to a kind of scary degree, because the kid only makes two mistakes when Jason tells him to show all the stretches he'd been taught. All right, then. "Do these stretches *every* day. Once when you wake up, once before you crash. I don't care how tired you are—you do them."

"I—yes."

A little hesitation? "What?"

"Will I—I was just wondering if I'll be doing them here, too."

No, he wasn't. There's *more* there, somehow, and it's making Jason's knuckles itch. "No. You *don't* lie to me. Not now, not ever."

"I wasn't—I was just—"

Blushing like a fucking fire truck. Jason nods to himself and grabs the kid by the jaw. "What. Was it."

A brief moment for the kid to look miserable again, almost *pleading*—but that's *not* aimed at Jason.

"Spill it. Now."

"I was—wondering. About whether I'd still be able to go out. At night."

Oh. To take his little fucking *pictures* of them all, and what kind of shit does he have on *him*? Jason shakes his head—

Drake squeezes his eyes shut. Just for a moment, but—there.

"That's all over now, kid. In fact, you're going to *bring* me all of your pictures tomorrow—"

"Please, I—"

"*Relax*. I don't plan on burning them," Jason says, and wonders if he means it. "They're not safe at your place—"

"*This* place isn't safe. The door—I was going to pick the lock, and the windows are old and thin, and—"

"And you really want your vigilante porn?" Jason smiles and squeezes Drake's face just a little too hard. He can *feel* the heat of that blush. "Listen up, kid. Maybe I wasn't clear last night, but I *own* you. From now until I say you're ready to hit the streets, you're *mine*. And that means when I give you an order, you fucking well hop *to*."

"Why. Why aren't you going to B—to Bruce? He thinks you're *dead*, and he—"

The rest of that is a pained little grunt, because Jason really is squeezing *too* hard—he eases up. "I already *told* you, kid, and every time you make me repeat myself, I get a little more pissed *off*—"

"You're changing the timeline *now*, with *me*. If I'm not supposed to start training until—"

"I *told* you," Jason says, searching those ice cold fucking blue eyes and finding only a mind that's thinking too hard and too *fast* for right now—Jason shakes his head. "You don't get it. You don't know what's *coming* for this comfortable little world of yours—"

"Then. Then tell me," and Drake looks determined, suspicious, and yeah, just a little balky.

Because of his fucking *pictures*. Unbelievable. "All right. It won't be long before Two-Face gets out. He's going to wire up too many parts of this city to count, and I *still* don't know where his base is going to be. He'll capture Batman *and* Nightwing, and the only person who's going to be able to save them is *your* skinny ass."

"But—if you were to go to. To Alfred, and the base—"

Jason shakes him a little, but—he doesn't know it's a Cave. That satisfies something in Jason that he can't really name *and* scares the shit out of him, but it's a fact, and he has to deal with it. "And maybe I put on my old suit and save the day? Heh, no. I'm not going to *be* here forever, kid. I've got other universes to get to, other places to *fix*—"

"Jason, I—it's just that you seem to expect me to be able to do things I can't, that I don't know—"

"Chickening out on me?"

"I—no, but—I don't know—"

"Fucking *grow* a pair, kid," Jason says, and shoves Drake back lightly enough that he only stumbles a little bit. He shouldn't have stumbled, at all. "You've spent your whole fucking life watching, but now? It's time to *do*."

"I don't. I don't want to fail," and Drake's looking down at his feet, and God, even *they're* small, like maybe this one won't even grow as much as Jason knows he *should*.

"Yeah, well, I? Didn't want to get beaten senseless and then blown the fuck up. You could walk under a fucking Mack truck tomorrow, kid. But first? You're going to *train*."

And Drake looks up, searching again—"I was really... Robin?"

Jason *doesn't* grind his back teeth. He crosses his arms over his chest, instead. "Yeah. You were." Whether or *not* you ever should've been. "And if you do what I say? You can be Robin again." The real way. The *right* way.

Drake nods and stands straight again, favoring the hurt leg—and then not doing anything of the kind. "I—I'll bring in the pictures," he says, and it sounds like he's promising to murder his fucking parents...

But it's what Jason needs. Obedience. "And you *won't* be going out at night until I fucking tell you."

He clenches his jaw—and nods.

"All right, then. Give me some push-ups."

"How many?"

"As many as you can."

And it's not enough, but he'd already known it wouldn't be. He has his memories of how Bruce had trained him, but he knows, now, that it had been all about getting the most out of a basically *strong* kid with no chance of ever developing serious acrobatics.

Drake is *different*, and so he's going to have to treat him differently, and, yeah, learn as he fucking goes. The stuff from the assassins will help—most of what he'd learned from them doesn't have a damned thing to do with body type—but the kid will almost certainly want to know what the strikes and pushes will *do* to a human body, and he's definitely not ready for that, yet.

Making him ready, now...

Well, he has some ideas about that.


	4. Chapter 4

A week into things, and it's time to give Drake a taste. He's been obedient, quick, and has even learned how to hide a limp from casual eyes. Jason had been worried that the kid's parents would be a little too interested in their suddenly exhausted and pained son, but they were good enough to flit off to Monaco the day after they'd started, which is the kind of thing that makes the honestly superstitious part of Jason feel like the multiverse is behind him, like the multiverse *knows* what it needs.

He shows up at the Drakes' around three, when the night's still humming and popping, when the air is still full of screams and sirens. He teaches Drake the best way to rappel down a line by doing it, confident in the knowledge that if Drake *is* stupid enough to fall, he'll just wind up in the Dumpster Jason had dragged close.

It would serve him *right*—but the kid makes it with just a few awkward moments, and fits like a bony little glove on the back of the bike.

They ride, Jason musing on the question of whether or not he wants to get helmets with radios while he searches for a likely—there.

There's no telling who'd started the fight in that alley, but it's between Blacks and Mexicans, and maybe that had been enough. He parks, gives Drake the stay sign he'd taught him just ten hours before, and wades in. It doesn't take long before all the players—pre-bloodied for Jason's convenience—are focused on him, and it doesn't take long to start taking them down.

A blow to the head there, a shot to the abs there, a knee to the groin for the asshole stupid enough to pull a knife on him—

And he can see the kid creeping closer out of the corner of his eye. Fucking—

Jason *throws* the next target at Drake, not bothering to spare a glance to see if he bounces or not, and finishes up—

Just in time to see Drake giving the guy he'd thrown a creditable kick to the knee. It doesn't drop the guy, but Jason had *heard* that crunch—

And so had Drake, because now he's wide-eyed and a little sick-looking, and there's a knife—

Jason gives the guy an elbow to the apex of the spine, *just* hard enough to send him to la la land, since his busted kneecap will be causing him no *end* of trouble...

"Sorry. I—I think I may have kicked. Um. Too hard—"

"Depends on what you were trying to *achieve*, kid," Jason says, gripping Drake's shoulder and moving him back and forth a little.

The kid looks shocked and still kind of sick—"I didn't. I think I *broke* his kneecap," he says, and not even the little red domino Jason had made for him—to match his own—can make him seem *anything* but poleaxed.

"You were supposed to stay put—"

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't see everything, and I—I broke. Oh, no, he's going to be *crippled*—"

"And he *won't* be getting into anymore fights like this one," and Jason shakes him again. "Do you have any *idea* how many times I've used that move?"

Drake frowns and shifts on his feet. "You were always... rougher. On people."

Too rough? Most of the Robin pictures in Drake's set were of *him*, but that probably has more to do with when he'd gotten a really good camera than with anything else. "Sometimes they deserve it," Jason says, as gently as he can—

It makes Drake look up at him, and Jason can tell he's searching even with the lenses down.

Jason raises an eyebrow and waits.

"I need. I should have more control," Drake says, at last, pulling himself up straight and clearly making another one of those soul-deep vows.

Jason squeezes his shoulder. "Yeah, you should. And you will. But for now? The only thing you did wrong was not following orders—"

"But—that man, he won't be able to—"

"Disturb the fucking peace as much as he wants to from now on? No, he won't. And that's *all* on you—"

"*You* didn't—didn't maim anyone," Drake says, and Jason will just *bet* that those cold blue eyes are fucking burning behind the domino. Time for—

A smile. "I save that for the people who deserve it, who go after innocents to rob, rape, kill—you'll see," and Jason pats the kid's shoulder. "Let's go."

All the Batman-catching action is on the East side tonight, so Jason goes west, heading for the areas with drug dealers and finding them. One or two of them comment on the kid on the bike—before getting their teeth knocked out of their heads.

Every time he hears the distinctive *tick* of one of them hitting the pavement, Jason thinks about the jar back in the manor full of the most diverse collection of mouth ivory outside of a dental clinic. He can never decide whether he wants to go take it back or if he wants to just get a new jar, and so he lets them fall where they will, leaves them for the street-sweepers and whatever gruesome-minded little kids come along. And it's—

It's nothing like having a partner, of course, but he can *feel* Drake, feel him watching and learning, studying and waiting for a slip, a moment when Jason can, maybe, show him who he really is.

But he doesn't find anyone worth the real pain, and soon enough it's time to let Drake crawl into bed and get a nap before school.

He drops the kid off—and he'd looked tired enough that Jason had *carried* him down from the roof before shoving him through his window.

"You know where you're gonna hide that?"

Drake strokes the domino on his face and shivers like he'd just had a serious fucking Moment.

"C'mon now, focus."

"I—yes. No one ever. No one searches my room."

"You come in looking like death walked over a few times and they just might *start*, kid."

Drake nods. "I—I have a place in the old heating vent. It. I kept my—the photos there."

"Good enough for now. Start thinking about where you can install a hidden compartment. Say... large enough for two pairs of uncollapsible calf-high boots."

And the kid's eyes go wide and a little wild on him—

"It *won't* be tomorrow or even three months from now," Jason says, and it comes out gritted because it's way too fucking true.

"Yes. I—yes. What—what do I call you when you're... well, you're not really suited up, but—"

"When the mask is on, you just call me 'J.' Nice and simple. And I'll just keep calling you 'kid.'"

"You. I mean. I don't mind if you use my name. When. If you want to."

Fucking really. "This isn't an Afterschool Special, kid, and I'm *not* your friend—"

"I know. It's just—um. I'm sorry I brought it up. I'll just—get cleaned up and sleep, now."

Jason feels his eyes narrowing behind the mask, but that was... correct. He nods and goes.


	5. Chapter 5

The thing is, Bruce really *ought* to be making an effort to find the new masks in his territory, but Jason figures he's got a few weeks, at least, before anything like that happens. He's not making a splash and he's not making *bodies*, and that means that Bruce has *other* things to deal with.

Going by the papers and the *word* on the street, the Batman is going out *every* night, breaking heads and putting people in the hospital right and left. The papers are muttering—real quiet-like—about the dangers of vigilante justice, but they're still using examples from *other* cities, which means that most people are still a lot more scared than pissed *off* and scared. Bruce isn't really due to seriously slip up for a while, yet, but Jason knows he can't really trust that.

This is a man who devoted his entire fucking life to becoming one of the most dangerous weapons in the world because he lost his parents. Losing a—

He'd called Jason his lover. He'd—

("I *love* you, Jason, you—you *must* understand --")

It has to be fucking with him. Talia had called it 'a difficult time.' Bruce, himself—

("I was lost. Unhearing, unseeing—Tim brought me back to myself, and helped to bring us all back together in your absence.")

He can't see it. The Drake he gets is just as quiet, obedient, and *quick* as anyone could want. It's just that he's also still way too small and about as *blank* as it's possible to get without also being a goddamned sociopath.

He's taking *in* everything—he gives back every test Jason gives him with near-perfect recall, and even *that's* getting better.

Where he fails—always—is in the ruthlessness he's going to need. He's got this *idea* of heroism that probably works just fine for Clark fucking Kent out in Metropolis, but doesn't fucking cut it for Gotham City.

Today, then, Jason gives the kid his first spar, dropping him again and again and waiting for the kid to speak up, to protest, to call *time*. Jason's just using touches, but—

There. The kid's throwing punches, using everything Jason's taught him in order to maximize every blow. He's quick and serious about it. He's—

That's it. He's *serious* about it, and it's not like Jason hadn't been serious the first time Bruce had sparred with him, but it hadn't *lasted*. Once Bruce had dumped him on his ass four times, Jason had just *coped* with the fact that he wasn't going to pull out any surprises, that he didn't *have* any surprises *to* pull out.

And then he'd gone with it, watching the way Bruce had moved, sure, but also just throwing himself *into* it—

Jason shakes his head and bites back a scowl—

"I'm not? Is there something—"

"Come *at* me," Jason says—growls, and Drake does it. Dutifully. Jason gives him two more falls that way, and—

Is he just like this? Is this something that's ingrained, somehow? He won't be any *good* for Bruce if he's not having fun at least *some* of the time. Jason holds up a hand and the kid stands down, rubbing his hip where he'd landed hard the time before last. And—that's something he doesn't do all that often, at all.

Jason moves the kid's hand and yanks down the—better fitting—pants. The blood's pooling, all right. "This is going to hurt," he says, before he can think about it, and starts rubbing and soothing.

Drake hisses through his teeth, but stands perfectly still, and—"I can't. I can't see what you're doing. Quite."

Quite. Yeah, *easy* to forget the way the kid talks when he just—doesn't. Jason shakes his head again. "If and when I need you to do this for me, I'll guide you through it. The words don't cut it."

"All right," he says, and starts evening out his breathing. He's having a little trouble by the sound of it, but they *have* been sparring for a while now. And—how to get the kid to loosen up?

He hadn't thought he'd *have* to, hadn't realized that the things he saw that made the kid so poorly fucking *suited* for the Robin suit ran that deep... "Okay. You're doing this wrong."

"The spar. I—I know I'm not fast enough—"

"You're not, no, but not. Not that part," Jason says, and keeps working. He's going to have one *hell* of a bruise no matter what Jason does, but at least it's from a fall and will *look* that way. And... hell. "Were you like this when you sparred in your karate class? This... tight?"

"Um... tight? I—I tried to keep my mind on what I was learning, if that's... what you mean?"

"Yes and no," and Jason doesn't sigh. "When I tell you to come at me? I want you to let loose. I need to see *all* of what you got, your control *and* your instincts."

"I—hm. I'm not sure... if I understand what you mean," Drake says, and it still sounds like he's having trouble breathing.

Jason moves to the last crescent of the bruise. "There are gonna be times when you're just too slow out there, when there's *no* time for you to think about what the *best* move will be. Are you hearing me?"

"And then—I'll have to do *something*. I can't freeze."

"Exactly. That something—whatever it is—can be the difference between life and death. *And* can make the different between whether or not the *secret* stays kept."

Drake shivers. "I—I've wondered. How it stayed kept here."

"Because the Joker is, first and foremost, a whackjob. He's dangerous, sure—about as dangerous as they come without also being martial arts experts. He had me half-conscious and twitching on the ground, but he never even tried to take off my mask, even though he *had* to know that it could lead him to Batman's identity. Most of the people we deal with out there? Aren't that crazy, at all."

"I'm not just protecting myself, I'm protecting *Batman*," he says, and it definitely sounds like he gets it, voice all soft and wondering...

And the bruise-to-be is about as good as it's gonna get. Jason stands up, yanking up the pants—bulge.

And Drake knows Jason sees it, judging by the *dark* blush on his face and the way he's wincing and turning away.

"You always get off on pain, kid?"

Drake clenches his hands into fists. "I'm fine. I'm—just. You know it's normal," he says, and it's *almost* an accusation. Really.

Jason lets himself smirk a little and grabs the kid's chin, turning him to face Jason. "Normal, hunh?"

"Y-yes. It's. I'm. We don't have to stop. Or anything."

"Anything...?"

And now that blush is a *lot* more like a flush—"You said—you wanted to see my instincts—"

"*I* just want to make sure that *one* of those instincts isn't going to lead to you trying to hump my leg like a damned Golden Retriever."

And *that* makes the kid show his teeth a little, though it's hard to be sure which one of them he's angry at.

Jason lets go and backs off, giving the kid a come-on that's slow, lazy—

And not at *all* finished before the kid is *leaping* at him, and that was a nice enough fake, but he doesn't have the power or lift for that kick. Jason rears away from it and slaps the kid's calf, and then there's another kick, and another—

Faster, now, and Jason bets he *used* to be proud of these kicks. The truth is that they're great—for a civilian dojo full of people who will never even *compete* in the martial arts.

For this... they're too weak and they lack a certain... something. Something Jason can't quite name, but maybe—maybe. The next time Drake gets in range, Jason spins him by the arm and *lifts* him into a choke hold some other Tim Drake probably remembers well—by the scar Jason had left.

The *good* thing about this is that Drake's still fighting, still *working* to get himself free, get a decent kick in—

"In a moment, I'm gonna let you go," Jason says, pulling the knife he always keeps at his back and tickling Drake's ear with it before making it dance in front of his eyes.

The sound Drake makes is shocked—which would've been obvious by the way he *stopped* fighting even if Jason *hadn't* been able to interpret the noise.

"Mistake," Jason says, and cuts Drake behind the ear—

"Ah—"

"Just a scratch. But you'll remember it every time you're tempted to stop fighting. You'll remember that I *could've* cut you open like a pig in a slaughterhouse—"

"Jason, I—I already—"

"You didn't. But you do now," he says, and drops the kid. "Now fight for your *life*."

And Drake goes for his knees *right* away, making Jason dance a little, turn to give Drake his side and a smaller target—

"*Now* you're getting it," he says, watching Drake spin into a kick, drop and go for Jason's ankles, roll when Jason stomps *down*—no, he would've taken that one hard and not going anywhere, but—

Still good instincts. And Jason could stop this anytime he wanted to by going on the attack, but he needs to *see* this, needs to know by that strike that Drake's flexibility is nowhere near where it needs to be, needs to know by that kick that Drake *can* push himself to that kind of stretch even now and still be able to keep moving.

And he *definitely* needed to know that Drake can—and will—do this silently. Jason's done the absolute opposite of encouraging chit-chat, but this is a whole new level of quiet. If some—untrained—asshole were to attack this kid on the street—heh.

They might get in a lucky shot or two—especially if they had a weapon—but they'd definitely pay for it. Pay *hard*.

Drake is pushing him back and back—toward one of the work tables. Jason's going to have to fight them back onto the mats sooner or later, but for now... yeah, let him.

Especially since Drake is pushing himself faster, sacrificing some of the accuracy for a speed that *absolutely* matches his size. He's not making Jason work for it, but, for the first time since he'd taken the kid on, he can see a future where he will—shit, *pipe*, swinging for his *knee*. Jason leaps over it, yanks the pipe away, and *drops* the kid with a blow to the shoulder.

Drake grunts when he hits the floor and—tries to push himself up on his arms, one of which is *definitely* not working right now.

"Stay *down*," Jason says, and takes a good, hard look at the pipe that he'd just taken out of the bathroom this *morning*. He'd been trying to figure out if he could justify using it on someone deserving tonight, or if he could maybe melt it down into something better...

And Drake had yanked it right off the table. If he'd gone for a headshot, Jason would've probably had to hurt one of his arms a little to block it—no, that's the kind of thing that needs to be *said*, if he's going to be any kind of teacher.

"A heavy, blunt instrument like this—you don't bring it out unless you *know* you'll be able to keep it. One good shot to the head from this and you're down and useless, if not dead."

"I—noted," Drake says. "May I... get up?"

Jason snorts. "If you can without help."

Drake nods and pushes up—on his good arm—until he can get to his knees and then up again. He's clenching the fist on the good arm—the other one is just hanging useless. Damn. He's really going to have to *check* his reflexes—and there's more to say.

"That was good, kid. *Real* good."

Drake looks at him, blinking and confused—"But you said—"

"I know what I said. But I'd *also* told you you were fighting for your life. When *that* happens? Anything goes," Jason says, tapping his palm with the pipe. "My goal is to get you *good* enough that you'll only be fighting for your life *rarely*—and that was a good start."

A bitten lip, and Drake's staring at the pipe, watching it go up and down and up again—

"Ask."

"Could you... I. Is there more? I mean—why was it good?"

Fishing? No, he doesn't think so—and this is *just* that important. "You went low—that's good. Most people aren't quick or skilled enough to know how to avoid that, and it's almost impossible to block without causing injury that might give you another second or two to finish the job. You get me?"

"Yes. Yes, I—I thought you'd have an easier time avoiding a high shot."

"Exactly. I could've caught the pipe and yanked it right out of your hand—which I did anyway, but you see my point."

Drake nods and the fingers on his bad arm twitch.

"Trying to clench your hand into a fist? That won't work for another ten, fifteen minutes."

"Oh—all right. Is there something—what should I do while I wait?"

I shouldn't have—fucking *say* it. Jason pushes a hand back through his hair. "Hit the weights. Work those legs of yours until you're *just* starting to feel the strain—no more than that."

"Yes, all right," and Drake immediately starts moving to the machine. And—

"And next time you pull something like that—I'll know not to hit you that hard."

Drake freezes—and then nods, and keeps walking.


	6. Chapter 6

He takes the kid out every night for a week, working through every part of the city that seems Bat-free. He's limiting *himself* to the two hour patrols that he's allowing Drake to try to keep himself off the radar, limiting himself to the dealers and the few incidental muggings and other things that happen on his watch—and there aren't *enough* of those.

Not enough violent ones, anyway, and Drake really needs to know, needs to understand it in his bones the way he *only* can if he's right there to *see* the shit going down.

It's—

He can't risk Bruce getting too curious too soon. Dick's still running all the hell over the place with the Titans, so *that's* fine, but there's only so much he can count on grief to hold Bruce down—especially since the skels have started calling Drake Robin. And *that* had been a tough few moments the first time, since Jason had been in the middle of five 'bangers and it would've been *easy* for Drake to let himself think that it was time for him to come in, to try using everything Jason's taught him over the last couple of weeks—

He hadn't. He'd sat right there on the bike and *watched*, not moving a muscle as near as Jason could see... because Jason had given that order *once*. Or...

Maybe because he was afraid of going too far? There's just no way to be *sure* until the shit *really* hits the fan.

And really, he almost *wants* the child-sized body armor he'd gotten for Drake to come into play, wants to see—

Well, he's *on* the street now, and Drake's riding bitch, and there'll be something tonight. Something, anything...

Right now, they're on the edge of the small—but growing—piece of the city alternately called the Pink Side, Shore Leave, the *other* meatpacking district... and a lot of other things that are less polite. Part of him can't help remembering the first time Bruce had taken him on patrol here, and the way Bruce had spent the whole night starting and stopping—trying and *failing*—to explain the *other* facts of life to Jason.

He remembers finding it *impossibly* cute—and more than a little insane, considering the fact that this was the same fucking guy who'd put him through a two hour *lecture* about heterosexual sex despite everything he'd *had* to know about Jason's past. And really, that everything *should* have taken care of the homo side of the force, too, but—

But. The *truth* is, he knows now, that Bruce had *also* been trying and failing to deal with how much he wanted Jason's *ass*. Whether or not he was working up to something about that while he was flailing around using words like 'tolerance,' and 'perfectly natural'... well, he'll probably never know.

And that's fine.

It had all worked out the way it did *anyway*, and the past is dead and gone—or.

*Had* this Bruce been sleeping with his Jason? Had he ever gotten up the balls to break a spar to pin Jason to the mats and kiss him? Fucking—*grind* him down against the mats and kiss so hard Jason hadn't been *able* to give any of it back, hadn't been able to do more than make a stupid fucking *surprised* noise—

He hadn't thought Bruce *would*—

He hadn't thought—

Jason shakes it off and keeps an eye out for *in*tolerant types, but there's no one showing up on his radar, no one—

There, in the alley. The movements are ambiguous, but the heads are shaved, and sometimes that's really *all* you need to know.

Jason parks a block away and *moves*, beckoning Drake to follow and not bothering to make sure he does until he's seeing—

Bottle.

And *that's* the kind of sick shit that doesn't fucking happen, that's not supposed to happen *here*—

Jason pulls one boot knife and slips the fingers of his other hand into the perfectly-sized titanium knucks Talia had presented him with on the long, good night before he was due to be tested—or butchered—by three of the League of Assassins' finest—

("*This*... is only for when you're sure that you've won.")

Of course. Of fucking—"Hey, *fuckheads*."

Everybody freezes, everybody turns—except for the guy he's just hamstrung, that is.

Jason counts two chains, three knives, and one cheap-looking .38. He breaks .38's nose and slices open the wrist with the gun, hoping like *hell* the first guy had AIDS—

And then it's on, and there's no time to check on Drake, to see how he's *dealing* with this, but it had to be like this. Had to be.

And everyone's down and bleeding in just about three minutes, groaning and cursing, begging for mercy—

And Drake's gone.

Gone.

Shit fuck *shit*—

Jason runs out of the alley—and Drake's on the pay phone talking to a nine one one operator and looking pale and sick. He hangs up and walks back to Jason.

"I thought—that man. The victim. He's probably bleeding internally, and I. He needs help."

Jason stares at him for a long moment, and Drake's face crumples—

Freezes—

Blanks. "Was I wrong, J?"

"No. You weren't. How much of that did you catch?"

"You—hamstrung the first man. And then you slashed open a wrist—no, you broke the man's nose first. And probably at least one cheekbone. You kicked—you kneecapped the third man and slashed his forehead and. And chin. You used your elbow on the fourth man's mouth and stabbed him—I think it was his kidney. I—there was only one man left, so I went to make the call."

Jason nods, because that's... that's correct. It's just not good enough. He makes the gesture for follow and walks back to the alley, pushing Drake in front of him. "What do you see?"

"Um. Six gravely injured men in their twenties and thirties. One may be in his forties."

"No," Jason says, and rests the hand with the knucks on Drake's shoulder. "You see one victim and five *assholes*—"

"Who got what they deserved," Drake says, except that it *almost* sounds like a question.

"Do you think I was too... rough, I think, is how you put it, kid."

"You were brutal. You—these men won't. You hurt them after they were down, when they couldn't cause any more injury to anyone. You—"

One of the assholes calls for a doctor, so Jason breaks his jaw with a kick. "Go on."

"I—it was. You weren't stopping a crime, J. You were *punishing* one, taking *revenge*—"

"Hell yeah, I was. Go check on the vic."

Drake goes immediately, stepping over bodies—but being careful to make *sure* the bodies won't be moving too much. Jason listens for sirens with half an ear and listens to Drake calmly and quietly talking to the victim, getting his name and making him talk about his friends—good that he didn't ask about family first, if strange for Tim to know not to—so he'll stay conscious.

When the sirens get closer, Jason gives the come whistle and Drake—squeezes the victim's shoulder gently before following him out of the alley to the bike.

It's time to head in.

The ride to the Drakes' place is necessarily, annoyingly quiet—even though he doesn't exactly want to have this conversation while he's driving. He's still going to get the radio helmets tomorrow, while the kid's in school. He feels something inside him loosen kind of fucking *alarmingly* at the thought, but practical is practical.

He parks, they take to the rooftops, and Drake looks good up here, almost *right*. He's moving like a shadow, like he's exactly as light and small as he is, and he's *learned*. Jason has to admit it had taken *him* a long damned time to learn how to move silently, but Drake had taken to the lessons probably better than he had to anything else.

Jason nods internally and watches Drake rappel down to his always-open window—hunh.

He slips in after Drake and gets a look of surprise and something like the bastard lovechild of worry and anticipation. What? Later. "Your maid never closes the window?"

"I—I told her that I wanted my room to smell like fresh air. I believe she thought I was being... fastidious."

Jason raises an eyebrow. "That's seriously enough."

Drake nods. "She's not very... I think, maybe, you're used to a different sort of... servant."

*Used* to—except that he'd had just about three years of Alfred, followed by another four with Talia and her fucking *slaves*—fine, all right. "We need to talk."

"I—yes," Drake says. "May I... I should stretch."

Meaning... he's still *enough* with the program. Good to know. Jason nods and gives him the go-on gesture, and Drake starts stripping out of his night clothes. Sweatshirt, armor, t-shirt. Boots—very good boots, and had he bought them himself? His parents weren't even in the *country* when Jason had told him to get the things. Then come the socks, then come the tough—but easy to move in—jeans. When he's down to his good-boy briefs, he starts to *flow* into the stretches. Jason hadn't taught him that, it had seemed to come straight from all the new katas he'd given the kid, but it's good to see.

He's hard, but it doesn't look serious. He's *been* hard around Jason for at least an hour every *day*, but the kid hasn't called a time for it, yet, and Jason's not going to worry about it. The first few months of *his* training had been one long fucking erection—getting longer by the day, it seemed—and—

And.

Jason takes the opportunity to move around and around the kid, checking out the great new muscle definition and the *sad*—but expected—new muscle growth. The flexibility is coming in leaps and bounds, though, which means that Drake has absolutely followed orders on that.

Still, though... "Stop tensing up."

"Sorry, yes."

"What are you worrying about, kid?"

"Um. There are... a few things," he says, bending and twisting *just* right.

Jason taps the back of his neck twice, then bends his ear forward and pushes his hair out of the way... there. The scratch has already faded white. It won't last much longer—

Drake shivers—

"Speak your mind, kid."

"Is that—I don't think—Batman doesn't *do* that."

"With the knife? No. But maybe you just haven't *seen* him punch one of those batarangs through someone's hand...?"

Another shiver. "That—there are ways to do it that won't. I've *studied* anatomy—"

"And all the target has to do is flinch for it to be a serious damned injury—"

"You *hamstrung* a man, Jason—"

"A man who was raping another man with a *bottle*, kid. Keep it straight."

"I—it. He'll be crippled. For life."

"And the next time he wants to fagbash? He'll just have to have a little fantasy about it, instead."

"It's said—many of the worst homophobes are people who are just closeted, themselves—"

Jason snorts and gives the back of Drake's head a little push. "You're seriously balking because one or two of those assholes might realize that there's a *reason* for their huge fucking issues? Seriously?" And when he moves around in front of the kid, he's looking down with his jaw tight enough to be wired that way. "Look at me."

He does, and everything's in his eyes. Just—fucking everything. Fear, anger, sickness... and things that look a lot like hope and faith, *need*—

"Jesus, kid—"

"It's just that—we. You're supposed to be a *hero*, Jason, and heroes don't treat people like that, no matter *what* they do. We had to stop them from—from *brutalizing* that man, but there were other ways to do it. You've been *teaching* me those ways—"

"Yeah, I have," Jason says, and drops into a crouch. "And those are the things you're going to use *most* of the time, you hear me?"

"But—we're already outside of the law. Don't we at least have to *try* to provide an equal standard?"

And he thinks of Bruce, of all those ideas about *fairness* that look so pretty and feel so damned *good*... right up until they don't. Jason smiles and shakes his head. "What do you think our vic wanted tonight, kid?"

"Graham. His name—his name is Graham. And he wanted a hospital and a large amount of marijuana—not necessarily in that order. Jason—what you did. What *we* did, because I was there and I didn't exactly try to stop you—"

"Remember the pipe, kid. Remember that's it's us or them—"

"*You* said it wouldn't always be about that, and—and those men couldn't have hurt you. Not *you*."

"You don't think so? That one guy was pretty damned good with his chain, and there were *five* of them. If they'd been just a little less drunk, and a little *more* organized—like the *real* gangs in this town—I might just have *needed* you."

And Drake—shuts down. Just like he'd flipped a switch inside his brain and fucking stepped *out*.

"Hey, don't fucking do that. Save that for when you're on stakeout or when you're getting tortured or something."

A blink, and all the everything comes back—and brings a blush with it. "I'm. I think. I'm frightened."

"Of me? Or of what *you* think those assholes deserved?"

"Both," Drake says, quiet and low. "I don't want to be... bad."

Of course not. God, how young *is*—focus, focus. "And you think I am?"

"I think something happened to you. I think—and maybe it was the Joker or maybe it wasn't. But you're angry all the time, and you're brutal, and—I'm *not* talking about your teaching methods—"

"Maybe you should," Jason says, and he's *aware* that he sounds fucking *cold*, fucking *harsh*, but—

"No, Jason, I don't—you're making me *better*, and I can't—please don't think I'm giving up, or criticizing, or—I'm not. All right? Please?"

And he wants—*badly*—to hold on to the *cold* rage that's running through him. It's so *rare* that he gets that one, as opposed to the ones that make him feel blind and fucking animal. Right now, he feels anything *but* blind. Just—this kid, looking at him and looking up to him, wanting nice, easy answers when there aren't any. Wanting—hell, maybe something like truth, justice, and the American fucking way. He'd *seen* those sheets.

And... that's not all he wants, at all. He wants *Robin*, yeah, but *that's* not all of it, either. He wants to be better, stronger, and faster. And while he wants to give that to Batman...

He also wants to give it to Jason Peter Todd.

"Please, Jason. I. Um."

Well. Jason blinks and shakes it off. "I'm *not* giving up on you, kid, so just wipe that from your freaky little brain."

The look the kid gives him is pure, unadulterated *how*, but...

He still doesn't know what to do about that. He takes Drake's jaw in his hand and grips, careful of the pressure points. "There are reasons for the rules Batman follows, and some of them are even *good* reasons—like keeping the cops on our side and keeping it so we can all sleep easy at night."

"Yes, I—yes."

"Here's the deal, kid—having the cops with you can only take you so far when the big guys get out of Arkham and start tearing the city into bloody little strips. The cops can't *handle* that—and, to be fair? No one really can. No one but *us*, because we can do the things they can't. *All* of the things they can't. There's nothing stopping us but our own *will*, and so long as Batman is doing all the right things, all the *good* things... well, who's to say *who* is doing the rest?"

"Oh. Oh. I—you mean to give Batman plausible deniability. For Batman to *take* plausible deniability while I." Drake blinks rapidly, and his eyes track even faster than that. "Batman never has to break his own rules, at all. Not if I'm the one who. Who. Oh."

Jason smiles and makes Drake nod for him. "They always said you were the quick one. Partners *complement* each other, kid. You're never going to be able to do *half* the things Bruce can—that's just physical reality. If it were all up to me? You'd be four inches taller than you are now and thirty, thirty-five pounds heavier. And *growing*. As it is... well, I know for a *fact* that by the time you're seventeen—"

"Don't. Please don't tell me. I'd like. Um. To keep my fantasies for a little longer."

That—Jason snorts. "Okay, freakboy, that's fair. So long as they don't keep you from focusing on all the skills you can—and *will*—pick up," Jason says, letting go of Drake's face and standing. "One last thing."

"I—yes?"

"I sleep just fine at—heh—day. And you will, too." Jason raises his eyebrows.

Tim nods—after a moment.

Jason goes.


	7. Chapter 7

Still, nothing in this life is that easy, so Jason spends the next few days watching. During training, during their nights out on the town... and other times, too.

The Drakes' townhouse has a lot of handy windows, and Jason can blend in pretty well, all things considered. It's one of the benefits of not having let himself get used to a new uniform, as opposed to living *and* working in several practical mix and match outfits. It's just not *that* big a deal to take off the domino and move through the daylight city.

The *twilight* city, which is a bit of a mix and match in its own right—but he's not looking for trouble right now.

Right *now*... he's got a front-row seat for dinner at the Drakes, a scope, and a directional mic which is giving him...

A lot of damned bickering from the kid's parents. They've been going at each other for a good, solid twenty minutes while the kid eats fucking take-out. *Good* takeout by the looks of it, but still takeout. The maid's off tonight, then.

And just—

"Well, maybe if you'd actually *told* me that you didn't want to go to St. Moritz—"

"Darling, if I'd told you in any more ways than I did, you'd have it tattooed on the insides of your eyelids."

"*Sweetheart*, I've told you a hundred times: I don't *speak* passive-aggressionese—"

"Oh, come *off* it—"

"I wasn't aware that I was on—"

And on. And on. And *on*.

Fucking A. It's the *kind* of fighting that *can* last like that—he knows it from his old neighbors—who'd cursed a lot more but the gist was the same—but... still.

Fucking. A.

Neither of them have said word one to Drake since they'd all sat down together, so really, what's the point? Is he even *tasting* his food at this point?

Jason shakes it off and watches Drake stand (quietly), collect his utensils (without so much as letting them jangle against each other) and cartons, push in his chair (a little bit of resistance from the carpet), murmur—something about homework. And then he's gone, while his parents keep up a steady stream of invective that never goes too far—but never lets up.

He keeps listening for another ten minutes, just to see if the kid's *name* comes up, but there really doesn't seem to be any *there* there, not even any good, old-fashioned 'you're the reason our kid sucks.'

And then he moves to a rooftop he can use to watch the kid, and...

He doesn't know what he's looking for, exactly. That arguing was a little too *ingrained* for there to be tears or even raging, but...

Drake is just sitting there, working on his computer—not playing, judging by what's on the screen.

His expression is... *not* the same kind of blank he gives Jason when they've been training enough that Drake's hard, and not the blank he gives Jason when he's hurting and doesn't want to admit for anything in the world, and *also* not the blank he uses when he's listening and watching with all of himself, when he's *learning*.

Which just means that all those other times weren't really blank at all, whether or not he wants to deal with that fact.

He's getting to know the little fucker. The little *weasel*, crawling down deep into the Cave and into *Bruce*, so far that the man had actually *come* to Jason to plead Drake's fucking *case*—

No. No.

He's not that Tim Drake, and, if Jason plays his cards right, he never will be. He'd known from the word go that he was setting Drake up to *present* himself to Bruce in a way little different than what he'd used in Jason's own world, that he was *editing* the narrative more than he was rewriting the thing, but...

It's still hard to deal with. Bruce ought to *know* what he needs, ought to be hunting right now for a new Robin, a Robin who can lead him away from all the seriously dark places his mind gets him into. Hell, he should've known that Drake had been *following* him years ago, should've brought him into the fold *one* way or another, even if he would've been too young to send out onto the street.

Blind spots. Everyone has them, but Bruce—*Batman* can't afford them. This whole thing...

If Jason gets it right, Bruce will have another pair of eyes, another pair of hands and feet. *This* Robin will see what Bruce can't, touch what Bruce won't, and kick the living *shit* out of everything else. All of that—instead of getting shoved into a uniform he'd make a mockery of solely by *existing* and trying—fucking *pretending*—to be someone he can never be.

No. He might still be getting to know just what makes Drake tick—and he might never know *all* of it—but he's getting to learn something like *enough* of it. Bruce was never meant to be dark. Not really. No matter *how* good at faking it for the cops and criminals he is.

Drake... well. He'd never once tried to say that what Jason does on the street was *wrong*, because a part of him knows that it isn't. He's a little squeamish, sure, but that actually speaks *well* of him. If he didn't get a little sick about the idea of being covered in someone else's blood, Jason wouldn't be able to *use* him for this. But what he is—

The *whole* of what he is—

Jason had seen it, a little, in the records of what the kid had done with his teams, in the way he'd managed to keep his distance in ways Dick never could, ways *he* never could—

And he watches, and remembers that one night with Roy, beer and Roy, and what had felt like a hundred million things he could never say about Bruce even as Roy kept his own Ollie-related crap to himself, even as they kissed and rolled around and kissed some more—

And when Roy had called out 'Robbie,' Jason could *almost* believe he was thinking about *him*. Almost.

No, the little fucker—the little *freak*—was never meant to be a part of anyone's family, as opposed to being on the outside looking in—

And if that feels like a little too much irony right about now, then maybe that's just proof that Jason's doing exactly what he should be these days. Maybe he *has* to know this kid, this—

This kid.

So he keeps watching. It's harder to keep an eye on him at school, but not by much. At first glance, there are friends there, but when he catches a glimpse of them out on the athletic fields, Drake is *smiling*, showing his teeth like a real boy and chattering and laughing along with the rest. He barely *needs* his scope to know that the kid's telling lies with as much of his body and his self as he can control.

Reading lips tells Jason that he's explaining why he hasn't been going to their little get-togethers, making up a story about extra practice with his sensei that *handily* explains all the bruises. Good deal.

In training, Drake just gets better and better, faster and *stronger*—and the little hand-strengthener he'd given the kid has been getting a *lot* of use. He can do a respectable number of push-ups and chin-ups now, even though he can't really manage them one-handed, yet.

He'll *get* there.

Just—he's on time *every* day and ready to work, and never complains about missing his friends or losing sleep, never breaks to deal with the erections that are getting more frequent and—by the look of his gi—more serious—

And Jason doesn't think he ever will.

At home, his parents are still arguing, still, it seems, having the *same* argument—even though showing up early one night had given him a scene of the two of them screwing just like they cared about each other. According to Drake, they've got another vacation coming up—and this time they're not going to leave the maid to pick up after the kid.

Jason knows what he's going to do.


	8. Chapter 8

The kid's first night sleeping over at the gym is quiet enough, since the kid even has his bad dreams mostly silently.

Jason wakes up for it, anyway and watches as Drake twists himself tighter and tighter into the sheets on the mattress he'd gotten for him, watches him sweat and shudder.

Smells him in the air and wonders—

He doesn't know what he's wondering, and if it has anything to do with the *itch* he feels in his skin at the sight of Drake *moving* like that, like he's in the kind of pain that leads to fucking *death*—he doesn't want to know.

"Kid. *Wake up*."

"Hnn—oh, God," Drake says, sitting up and rubbing his face, his eyes—"I'm sorry, Jason. I didn't mean—"

"I—I know," Jason says, sitting up and turning to face the kid. "Tell me the dream."

"Oh—I. It's just a dream," and Drake turns to face him, blinking owlishly and looking... scared?

Of what was in his head or of sharing his little rich boy trauma—

Except that Drake *never* acts like the assholes at that school Bruce had sent him to. Not ever, not even for a moment.

Jason growls to himself—

"I mean. I can—it was Dick's parents. Um. Again. I watched them fall, and then they were just lying there while everyone watched and did nothing. And Dick cried between them, but no one *came*. Batman didn't come. And I—it just. Went on too long."

Seriously? *Seriously*? "Why didn't *you* do anything?"

"I was tied to my. I was chained to my parents, and they wouldn't do. Anything. No matter what. Um. I have that dream—variations of that dream—"

"A lot, yeah. I can't fucking believe you actually have *other people's* nightmares for them, kid."

Drake looks down at the mattress, making a mostly futile effort to unwind himself from the sheets. "I didn't. I was *there*, Jason—"

"Here, let me help you with that," and Jason stands and walks over, yanking on the sheet until Drake rolls out. Then he recovers Drake and moves back to his own bed.

"Um. Thank you," Drake says, and tries—really fucking *horrendously*—to smile at Jason.

"Stop that," he says, making the stand-down gesture reflexively.

Tim blanks his face—no. It's the hungry look, the *lonely* look, and there's just too much of it—

He's *dealing*. "Being at Haly's that night made you need to start stalking Dick and opened up his identity for you?"

Tim nods. "He was... very nice to me."

Unlike *him*—"Yeah, well, he does that. Reflexively, even," Jason says, and knows he's really just making noise to fill the quiet that's still echoing with the silence of that nightmare. Jesus. "You saw it all, then."

"I—yes. It's. It's the sound more than anything else. And the way they—bounced."

Jason winces because he has to—and watches the kid search his face, obviously looking for an answer for this, an explanation of why Jason... cares. Right. "You can't let your nightmares wind you up, kid."

"I know. I usually just—um. Let them happen and then kind of chase them away. In the morning."

Jason raises his eyebrows. "Yeah? How's that working for you?"

Drake looks down. His hands are under the sheet so Jason can't see them, but he'll bet that the kid is clenching his fists.

"I'll take that as a 'not so good.' Look, you were bound to start having more nightmares. Your lizard-brain knows what's coming for you, and you're a lot more scared than you think you are—"

"I'm not—I'm not a coward, Jason," he says, looking up—looking hard.

"No one said you were. This life is *about* fear, in one way or another. The *trick* is making sure that you're not the one sleeping badly. Get up and stretch again."

"Yes, Jason. All right," he says, throwing the covers back and showing off his pajamas. They're actually a little small on him, which means it's time to send the maid off to do some shopping, unless his parents—

No, it would be the maid. He knows that now.

"Should I—should I go down to the mats?"

"No, you can do it here. I need to see the gains you're making, anyway," Jason says, and puts himself in a lotus to better see the part of the floor Drake is claiming for his own.

He's actually getting to be a little *more* flexible than Jason had seen in his own—in that other world, like maybe Bruce just hadn't pushed him as hard as he could've done on this stuff. It's not as surprising as it could be, considering the world he'd caught a glimpse of where Tim Drake was bending and moving like *Dick*—Jason shakes it off. If it gets to the point where Jason can't teach him as well as he can *learn*...

Well, by then he'll *be* ready.

But Drake's getting more tense by the second. It's *not* the observation—though that used to get to him in the beginning—so... what?

"Spill it."

"I—it's not—"

"Drake."

"You said..." And Drake is absolutely using the *excuse* of stretching to not look up, but Jason can go with it for another few seconds, at least.

"What did I say?"

"You said—you implied that you didn't have nightmares."

Heh. "No. I *said* that I slept fine—and I do. But the nightmares still come, from time to time."

"Oh. But not... often."

Jason shrugs, knowing that Drake is catching it with his peripheral vision. "More than a civilian, less than *Bruce*. There are ways around it. One is what you're doing right now—reminding your mind and body that there's a reason for all of this, that you're getting better and *will* reach a point where you can just walk into your worst nightmares and kick a little ass." Or hug a little boy, as the case may be...

No, Dick was older than Drake is now when he had his really bad day—but still.

"You hearing me?"

"I—yes. But... I was wondering if I shouldn't be training in other ways? Maybe using the weights or... or something."

Heh, good boy. Jason smiles and shakes his head. "It's kind of a fine line, but no. Your body already needs you to work it *every* day—you'd feel like shit if you slacked off now—but you also can't overdo it. You have to give it *just* enough every day that you'll be able to do just a little *more* the next day. So, for *this*? You stretch, or maybe do a kata or two."

Drake nods thoughtfully and moves into the next stretch. "And... the other ways?"

"Mindless stuff. Target practice with the knives or the shuriken. Try making patterns *on* the targets. Jerk off until you're raw. Have sex. Find a good thing—a thought, a memory, some object that makes you happy—and really focus on it, turn it around and around until you can almost *taste* it... stuff like that," he says, and he's not thinking about that one day when he and Bruce had done nothing *but* spar and fuck and spar some more, only breaking to eat when Jason's stomach wouldn't let him focus on getting blown again—

He's not.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment—

"I could—I can be quiet. I don't need. You could sleep. More."

Yeah, 'cause *that's* what he was thinking about. "Don't worry about me, kid. Just putting all the daytime thoughts in their places."

"You... have a system."

Jason blinks and focuses on the kid. "Yeah. And you'll need one, too. Day thoughts, night thought, fight thoughts, fuck thoughts—you'll *eventually* need a space for the last one. You can't do all of this just inside your *own* head."

"Oh. I don't suppose... I don't suppose the Tim you knew had... someone?"

Because you're just that lonely? Christ, he hadn't *had* a life when Bruce took him in, as opposed to the streets. This kid... this kid. Fuck.

"I mean... if you felt like. Telling—"

"Yeah, you had someone." She even came back from the dead. Kind of. "And I'm not telling you a thing about her, because that could fuck things up too much," Jason says, pushing a hand back through his hair and trying to fucking deal, trying to—

"Her? I had... will have. *Her*?"

Jason blinks a little *more*, because that—he focuses on the kid. "You're queer."

Drake blushes—his hands are shaking. "I'm not—it's not—"

"It's not *what*?" Jason snorts. "That *would* explain a couple-few things. Not just a *metaphorical* hard-on for Dick, then?"

If Drake gets any redder he'll look like a tomato. On a stick.

"C'mon, give it up. They'll all know when they get to know *you*, anyway," he says, and—thinks about it. *Bruce* would know. About one fucking *heartbeat* after he gets to see Drake in Dick's space. Dick, though...

"I—it's. A long-standing... crush," Drake says, and moves to the next stretch. The flush is showing a little on the back of his neck.

Hm. "Except that you don't think of it that way, because it's gone on so long and because it goes that *deep*. Right?"

"He's very. He's. Jason, I don't see how this—"

"I'm getting to *know* you, you little fucker," and yeah, that's the truth. It's not a truth he knows how to deal with all that well, but—fuck it. *Ride* it. "What about Bruce? Ever think about *him* when you're spanking it?"

"Jason—"

"Answer me," he says, and he means it to come out conversationally, with a *laugh* behind it, but—it doesn't.

Drake swallows. "Yes. Yes, I do."

And a part of him wants to be pissed for that, for Drake taking something *else* he's not supposed to have, was never *supposed* to have—no. No. Not this Drake and not the other one, either, because he never *did* have it, and—

Jason was *dead* and Bruce was alone and here was this *kid*, so obedient and quiet, so careful and *good*—

And if Bruce had ever so much as given the kid a handjob, Jason would've known about it when he'd seen Bruce *with* Drake. He would've been able to see it—fucking *smell* it—when Bruce had come to him, whether or *not* he'd looked for it.

And he'd looked, all right. Fucking *defending* the kid, trying to put in a good word—with nothing about how Bruce felt about him, if he'd needed the kid or not. And really, that *could've* just been tactics—right about then, if he'd heard anything like that—

He has to know *himself*, no matter what else he does. He's got fucking issues, and he's managed to carry them into a whole *new* world, and if he's not careful...

If he's not careful, he'll fuck *everything* up. Right now, Drake is staring at him with the kind of fear—it's the wrong kind of fear. Fear of *failure* is workable, fear of your teacher losing his shit and breaking you into your component fucking parts... is not.

"Settle down, kid. I'm not gonna break your balls—too hard."

Drake blinks those wide blue eyes, searches him—and blushes again. Just—damn. Right when the *old* blush was fading.

It's tempting to ask him what it's for *this* time, but—hell, he *knows* what it's for. He and Bruce just weren't all that *subtle* about things—on the street *or* off, and there were times when Bruce had peeled Jason out of a tuxedo with his *teeth*, times when Jason had screamed so loud he'd hurt his throat, times when the bite of the wind on his dick had just been another part of what made it so *good*, so fucking *good* with Bruce as he bent Jason over a damned gargoyle and fucking *took*—

He knows, and hell, maybe the kid has a picture of it in the collection Jason has stashed somewhere. Maybe whenever he looked at it he replaced Jason in his mind with himself—or with Dick.

Or maybe there weren't any replacements, at all.

Drake looks down, and shifts until his knees are up and his feet planted. He's not quite *hugging* his knees, but the possibility is there.

"I'm—still not gonna break your balls much, kid. There's nothing wrong with being queer, and... you should know that's the way I feel, by now," he says, and—that's about as close as he's going to get to asking that question.

Drake nods, looking up, and—he really just doesn't seem to be blinking all that much.

"*Do* you need to jerk off?" And who are you gonna be thinking about, if you do?

"I could. Um. Go to the bathroom," he says, and the funny thing is that he's not looking down again. Jason has *all* of his attention, and at least a part of him plans on keeping it that way.

Right. Fine. Teacher and student, and whatever else goes along with that, whatever it *takes* to turn the kid and keep him turned—

It's not that. It's not—

"How much did your old man tell you about sex?"

"I—have the internet, Jason," he says, and sounds a little *offended*, which—

Which *really* means that if his father had done any more than buy the kid a pack of condoms—

If he'd done that *much*—

Jason snorts and shakes his head. "You know about condoms? About *all* the reasons it's important to use them?"

"I've studied all the STDs and their effects. I don't plan to—you said I had—I'll have a *girlfriend*?"

"If things go more or less the same way here. She's—beautiful."

Drake nods thoughtfully. "I suppose... there are a lot of studies that suggest many people don't know the full extent of their sexualities for quite some time," and he sounds so fucking *doubtful*—

Jason laughs. "Yeah, that's right, *go* with that." He shakes his head. "Anyway. You know that there's nothing bad or wrong about jerking off—"

"Yes."

"And you know that—okay, we'll leave the issue of pregnancy alone for the *moment*—"

"Yes, um. Please."

Jason laughs again, and it feels like something is breaking in him, something small and sharp and too fragile for what he needs it to *be*. Just—he hasn't laughed for anything but someone else's *pain* since—

And maybe it's been too long.

He raises his eyebrows again and stares down at Drake, who's staring up at him like maybe he'd done something amazing and difficult to credit as opposed to just laughing at him. Jason sighs internally and lets himself fall back onto his bed, reaching for the tissues and his slick—the kind that feels *most* like sliding into a woman who wants you *just* that much. He holds them out for the kid.

"Um—thank you. I—I'll just—"

"Get back in bed, kid. You'll have a better shot at getting back to a *good* sleep if you do it that way," he says, and watches Drake stand and reach for the stuff like maybe Jason is asking him to take some heroin and a needle. "Go on."

Drake swallows, nods, and does it, pushing down his pajama pants a little before climbing back in. They really are just that small on him, small enough that he'd have to work a little to get them down if he was already on his back—

And there's a new bruise on his hip to replace the first one. He's really going to have to go over falls again—

Drake's biting his lip and slicking his hand, very *much* not looking at Jason—and he doesn't have to look, either.

Jason pulls the covers back up over himself and works on putting himself back to sleep, letting go of some things and shoving others down to the place which will wake him up again when he *needs* to be awake.

Drake already knows—well—how to get to school from here, so that won't be a problem. He knows he *will* wake up when Drake does, but it doesn't have to be all the way—

That sound. Not a moan and not really a sigh, either, but he can't classify it right away—

Not until after the old, familiar sound of a hand *working* a dick sinks in deep enough to fucking stick. Christ, maybe he *should've* sent the kid to the bathroom. Bruce mentioned how he used to jerk off in his room at fucking *Exeter* with his roommate—and that had been an interesting little road to wander down in his mind *right* up until he'd remembered that Bruce had gone to school with fucking *Two-Face*. He'd never asked for confirmation and Bruce had never offered any, and that—

Was just fine.

It's just that the *only* time Jason had ever been in the same room as someone jerking off—other than those times when he's had to hit a porno theater for some reason or another, and he'll just forget about the smell of those places right *now*, thank you very much—is that *one* time he'd gotten Bruce to jerk off *for* him.

When he'd gotten to see *exactly* how Bruce looked when he was thinking about Jason but not *having* him, and all the ways it was different from when they were actually fucking, how it made Jason feel like the worst person in the world, the worst *tease*, because how could anyone deny Bruce? How could anyone stand up in the face of that much *need*?

That *sound*, and the strokes are shorter and faster than anything he uses for himself until the very end, than what Bruce had used until he was begging for it, begging Jason just to touch, to kiss, to do *anything*—

Another sound, low and sharp—it's a moan, cut *right* off, and should he have told the kid he didn't have to worry about being quiet? He's gotta be used to it, living at home with his parents like that—

And a closed door and music on that sweet stereo system would really have been enough to give the kid all the freedom he *wanted*, and he—knows that, now.

And knows that Drake tries to stay quiet, anyway.

And knows that he's probably—almost certainly—*good* at staying quiet, which means that the fact that he's failing now—

Another cut-off moan—

Shit. It's *nothing* like watching Bruce jerk off and it's *everything* like those first few times he hadn't been able to keep himself from jerking off in the shower even though Bruce had been right there, *because* Bruce had been right there, and he'd thought—

Maybe he wants this, maybe he wants *me*.

He'd thought that, and also—

Maybe if I show him, if I do *this*—God, I can't *stop*—

Jason growls—

"*Oh*—"

And that really was Drake coming on himself and, hopefully, a tissue. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about punching himself in the brain two, maybe four or five times.

Maybe eighteen or so. How many punches could he get in before he just fell over twitching? It's definitely worth a little experimentation, because yes he *had* just gotten himself hard, and while it hadn't been a formal *plan* not to jerk off in front of the kid while he was here—

It's been a long time since Talia. A long time and a whole separate *world*, and if he tried flying out to Egypt or Abu Dhabi or wherever she's hanging out these days, he'd just get a couple dozen Ubus to the face. Jason snorts to himself—

And listens to the kid pant.

After a minute, Drake sits up and tosses the used tissue—perfectly—into the waste basket.

"You're good, kid?"

"Um. Definitely a lot... better. Thank you."

"You're *welcome* to touch your own dick anytime you want that doesn't interfere with training or get you arrested."

And *that* sound—like a hum Drake wasn't sure he wanted to let out of his mouth—was absolutely a laugh. Good deal? Yes? No? Figure it out, later.

"Get to sleep," he says, shifting—and dealing, yeah. "And hand me the tissues and slick."

"Oh, sorry," and Drake hops to, tucking the little bottle of slick inside the tissue box before handing them over.

And... yeah. Coping *now*. "How hard... how hard are you gonna get listening to *me* jerk off?" And the answer to that question is the answer to a *lot* of questions that really aren't anywhere *near* to being things he wants to hear, things he can *deal* with hearing—

No, no, and no. He can *deal* with the kid wanting him. It's natural, it's—it was almost fucking *inevitable*, no matter how fucking grim and mean he came on.

Hell, he'd probably made the kid think of Bruce—the *Batman*—more than once—

"I—I—I think. It's soon enough... after. I'll be fine. I *am* fine, I mean. Um."

Except that *that* answer had managed not to be *much* of an answer, at all. And perhaps he should've known it *could* be like that with a kid who fully understands the meaning of plausible deniability. All right then. He can worry about it some *other* night—along with worrying about what the kid thinks about the fact that Jason *needs* to jerk off right after he had. If worse comes to worst, he can always set the kid straight about *that* little aspect of human sexuality.

He can call it the Echo Effect or something. Or he can just own up to the fact that he's nowhere near being over—

His ex. "All right, then. Try to sleep," Jason says, pushing the covers back and shifting—he slips right out of the slit in his boxer briefs and really has to take a moment to laugh at himself. Just—Jesus.

It's not like *he's* still a kid, *whatever* his dick has to say about it. He slicks himself up and starts to stroke, thinking of long dark hair and subtly golden skin, curves and muscle and eyes that never stop calculating, never stop being focused on the main chance.

Talia had wanted to do with *him* what he's doing with Drake, and he'd even agreed with the program—for a while. Mostly he'd been wandering in his own head between confusion and rage, between terror and *loss*—

And she'd been right there to guide him through it, to *make* him better at what he wanted to do, who he wanted to be—but he'd had too many different goals, too many fucking *issues* with Bruce to do what needed to be done. He just hadn't been *able* to push himself back into Bruce's life, to make his case in more than overdramatic fucking *gestures*—

He'd been immature, and he's not going to make that mistake again, not going to pretend that he doesn't want the things he wants, not going to fucking *hide* from himself in his own damned mind—

Talia, and knowing that she wanted Bruce had been part of the attraction. He'd read the *files* on her, and had been smart enough to read between the lines—Bruce had wanted her, too. *Desired* her for her body and her brilliant, twisty, Daddy-obsessed mind—and hadn't that made all kinds of sense?

Just—*Bruce*, and the way he'd get in Crime Alley, the way he'd get when he looked at that huge portrait of his parents, the way he'd get sometimes, right around dawn, when the light was coming up on another day where he wouldn't get what he needed. Not all of it, anyway.

And now he's thinking about having Bruce in his arms, so big and so *lost*, so hungry for understanding that he'd even look for it from a foul-mouthed kid with a serious fucking attitude problem. And he'd given what he could, *been* there for him as much as he could—

He can't have that again. He can't *take* that, but oh—

If he could have just the *touch*, just those big, powerful hands on his body, *moving* his body the way Bruce wanted it to move, until it seemed like those hands were all over him at once, until he was moaning for it, sobbing and fucking *begging* for it—

Bruce.

And when Jason opens his eyes, it's just a ceiling above him, not *the* ceiling, the one he'd come staring at so *many* times, the one he'd tried to shout down onto both of them, because living with that feeling inside him—

That *need*—

And what does Drake need? What was he thinking about when he was jerking off? Whose hands were on him?

Would it be too much to hope for that they *weren't* his own? No, not that. Not—he can't fucking think about *that*, and is this what all vigilantes who deal with teenagers go through?

Maybe there have to be moments like this one, where necessity breeds just a little too damned *much* intimacy, and everyone has to deal with it and pretend it's all perfectly normal—

He'd *started* it. He—the kid would've just *lived* with his erection, or maybe waited until Jason was asleep again before slipping down to the bathroom. He wants Drake to be at least a little comfortable with him, *needs* that now that they're getting closer—

Closer—

And fuck, maybe he can just *shoot* himself in the head, because damn if he isn't thinking about what that kid could do with the hands he's been working so *hard* to strengthen, with that pinched little lying mouth—

*Bruce*, and maybe his brain just ambushed him to get him back on the right track, because he gets a flood of images, memories—

They'd never fucked in or near that Olympic-sized swimming pool, had *barely* ever done it in full daylight, because it had taken ten damned minutes to convince Bruce's curtains to open enough that the sun could hit the bed, and Alfred had just closed them again once he and Bruce had gone back down to the Cave.

But—

Golden light on Bruce's chest, and the way it had made most of the scars fade instead of gleam the way they did under fluorescents. Bruce squinting his way through a rueful smile and touching Jason's face while he'd jerked Jason off just—

Like—

This.

And now he's pumping into his own fist, panting a little, feeling the fuck in his palm and in his dick, and it's hot enough to maybe—

God, *Bruce* fucking his fist, doing it hard and fast—no, he needs it the other way. It's Bruce's hand and it tightens like *this*, speeds like *this* and never falters, never pauses since—

("Like... like this?")

\-- the first time, because Bruce wants nothing more than to give Jason what he wants, what he *needs*—

And Jason can feel himself wanting to call Bruce's name, wanting to taste it on his tongue before sending it out to the whole world, or at least to Gotham. Bruce.

His—his fucking *lover*, and the only home he thought he'd ever—

(Need.)

\-- have, the only—

The right—

And the tissues are right there for him, right where he needs them, where he needs Bruce's *mouth*, because he *never* missed a chance to taste Jason when the option was there for him, even when Jason *just* wanted those hands—

Yeah, *both* of them, and now he's working his sac through the boxer-briefs, just squeezing them *hard* once—

Twice, and he's coming, mouth open but thankfully no sound coming out, because he'd bitten back on it hard *enough*, and God, it's good, so *good*, making him feel like sweating and moving, making him fucking *high*—

Until he's back in his body with a sucked-in breath he can't do anything about and the tissue is a dead loss. He tosses it without looking, knowing it'll land in the basket and just—takes a moment.

Just—

Drake's exhale is low and shuddery, but it's only a breath. Yeah, he'd known the kid wasn't really going to sleep through that. Still... "You okay?"

"Y-yes. I'm not—I'm fine."

Not hard? Not obsessing even a little? Not *what*? Jason sighs and tucks himself away. "I'm going to hold you to that, kid. We start training..." It takes the kid an hour to get here from school on the subway, so... "Six o'clock. Breakfast at five-thirty."

"All right, Jason. I—sleep well."

Jason closes his eyes and wonders what he's getting himself into, what he's *doing* to himself, to the plan, to *himself*—"Yeah, you, too, kid."


	9. Chapter 9

The kid gets up at five and washes up—for long enough that Jason knows that he's taking care of the *raging* erection he'd woken up with and tried and failed to hide.

Jason puts himself back to sleep until five-twenty and then makes them some eggs and toast. The kid watches him do it after offering to help—and then admitting that he knew absolutely nothing about cooking eggs or anything else, for that matter. Jason lets him butter the toast, and...

He doesn't much care for milk, but he'd bought some—whole—for the kid, who needs all the help he can get. They each have some juice, and then he sends the kid to stretch while he thinks about... nothing much in particular.

Or everything. One of those.

At this rate, the kid's going to be at least as ready as he was when he first put on the suit within several weeks, save for the strength. He'll be *more* ready in terms of the strikes and the kind of kicks that require serious flexibility, which means it'll be time to send him to Bruce. Or...

Hm. He *could* just track down the Tailor and have him make a Robin suit to his specifications. He *has* the sketches for the thing, and the Tailor takes commissions from people who *weren't* trained to draw by Bruce Wayne. And... yeah.

He could have Drake present himself *that* way, suited up and ready to go. Ready to *fly*.

Yeah, that... works.

At six on the dot, he makes Drake start showing him the last two katas he'd been taught, and they're just fucking *perfect*, just the right levels of grace, balance, and *viciousness* to make up for the lack of power. Hmm.

"That strike. What would it have done to a target?"

"Paralyzed his arm from the elbow down," Drake says, and keeps moving—

"What about that one?"

"Ah—extreme pain. Possibly to the point of screaming—"

"Do it again," Jason says, and watches Drake shift to an aggressive stance—there. "What would it have done if you'd sent it higher and to the left?"

"Crushed. Crushed windpipe."

"And that frightens you."

"I don't—want to kill anyone."

"Good. I couldn't use you if you were fucking bloodthirsty—but you'll remember that."

"I could. If I carried a pen with me—"

"You could trach someone you'd downed that way, yeah. Heh. That idea make you more comfortable, kid?"

Drake closes his eyes. "Infinitely."

Jason strokes the tension he can see in the kid's shoulders with two fingertips—pulls back. "You'll have one. Or—we can just get you the real thing. A nice, hard, pointed metal tube. And you'll *know* how to use it."

"And then I'll be able to... let loose. To a certain extent," he says, and then opens his eyes, turning a questioning look at Jason.

"Being prepared means being *prepared*. You're not big enough to weigh you down with *too* much equipment, but... you're going to *need* to go for the throat sometimes."

"Because... of my size. And the kind of—of Robin I'll be."

"Got it in one," Jason says, smiling and pulling off his shirt until he's down to nothing but the boxer-briefs. "Now I'm going to show you a new kata. Watch the way my muscles move."

"Yes—I mean. All right," and Drake stands down and moves back to give Jason space.

That yes had been a little too... much. And Jason—he could've just said 'watch' and left it at that. That's what he's *been* doing—

Fuck, fuck, and fuck some more. Maybe he'll get lucky and the kid will say or do something that'll let Jason put a fucking *stop* to this before he—

Something.

Jason takes a breath and moves into the kata, trying to make it as slow as he'd done it the first time Talia had one of her minions show it to him. He doesn't think he can manage *that*, but, well—this one calls for something close to the *edge* of his flexibility, and the challenge is *enough* of a slow-down.

Drake. Tim Drake, who maybe—definitely—wants a taste of the big, scary man who's been teaching him to be something better than he has any right to be. Than he *thinks* he has any right to be, because those neighbors of his had *had* a kid.

A kid who'd grown up thinking she was the most useless, undesirable thing on the face of the earth. A kid who started using when she was fucking *eleven*, and so Jason had drifted away from her and just—

Watched her kill herself while her parents went on and on about *their* problems, never stopping to look, to see, to *help*—

And maybe the Drakes aren't that bad. Maybe they remember his birthday and Christmas and shit like that, and take him out to—

Well, they'd sure as fuck taken him to the *circus*. Jesus fucking Christ—no.

Jason focuses on what he's doing and *only* that, letting the rhythms take him—

Work him—

*Twist* him, and he doesn't bother to look to see if Drake's paying attention. He knows he is. That he's memorizing everything—*especially* how Jason's muscle groups are moving.

He's just that good and just that *focused*, and—

You'd think the father would at least *want* to take the kid to work, sometimes—

"Drake," he says, not stopping—

"Yes?"

"Have you been—blowing off your parents for this?"

"Um. It hasn't... come up. I bring my camera with me to school every day... I think they believe I've just been practicing my photography."

Which... "You'll need some evidence of that."

"I've been trying to take more pictures on my way here. And—around school."

"Good, *but*—"

"They don't. I've never. I don't show them my pictures. They know that's private."

"What—you could be wandering off every day to get fucked up the ass by the local child molester—"

"But I'm not," Drake says, and when Jason slips back into his own skin and turns, there's a smile on his face, rueful but still a little—bright. "It's really not an issue, Jason. If it comes to it, I can always say that I'm out playing Elfquest with Ives, or... or something. Pick-up basketball in the park, studying in the library—my grades haven't slipped. I—just. You shouldn't... worry. If that's what you were. Doing."

"I was *worried*—" About what the hell your *life* looks like. Shit. "Never mind. Let me see you."

Drake nods and moves into the kata immediately, hitting point after point after—

"Stop," he says, and Drake holds himself mid-kick. Jason pushes Drake's foot down a little. "Lower is better for this one—it'll help your speed into the next strike."

Another nod. "Ready."

Jason taps his ankle and moves back. "Go."

He makes three more mistakes, and then makes two *different* mistakes in his second run-through.

There's no time for a third before school, though, so Jason backs off and sends the kid to get ready.

While the kid's learning whatever it is... why *is* he in a public school? He would've been up shit creek if the Drakes had let their money do the talking for their kid's education, but it's still a little on the strange side. He—maybe he'll just ask.

He spends the morning hacking the Drakes' bank records and—yeah, they're rolling in it, and they like to spend it all over the world. Judging by what he sees, they've taken fourteen trips out of the country over the past three years. There are *also* trips to California, North Carolina, Massachusetts, Colorado—and he'll bet they'd left the kid home for every last one of them.

Maybe his neighbors would've done the same thing if they'd had the cash, going everywhere they could because they just couldn't stand to be home and dealing with what their marriage actually *looked* like. Maybe the Drakes are better people when they're on the road. Maybe...

Maybe he should just fucking cope with the fact that he has the *perfect* opportunity to train the kid the way he wants to and leave it at that. Maybe.

Was it this way in his own world? The Drakes are due to have a truly nasty time in Haiti in several months. He hadn't planned to do anything about that—the kid *should* be in with Bruce by then, all set to be a ward while Jack Drake slowly recovers. Slowly enough that it'll be too late for him to have *any* influence on Tim's life.

On.

Motherfuck.

And how, exactly, is the kid going to take it when he knows Jason is *worried* about him? He could soak it up like water in the desert—and Jason will have to work fucking *hard* to keep a little professional distance.

Or he could balk harder than he ever has for *anything*, and that—would be a damned problem. He doesn't *want* Jason to worry, and he's been so—

He's been so damned *accepting* of all of this, even—especially?—Jason being a fucking *dick*, and—yeah, he can see that now.

This was never about punishing the—

This was never about punishing Tim, who, he has to admit, has never done one fucking *thing* to him. It's about Bruce, and about Gotham, and all the good that can be done for—for all of them. For the fucking *world*, because, yeah, those other meta-kids will need someone, a little guidance *sometimes*, when he's done what he needs to do *here*.

So... this is the way it's going to be. There's no telling how long the anomalies will be popping off—he hasn't had even a whisper of one on his sensor for two weeks—and so there's no telling how long he's going to *be* here once... once Tim is ready.

He doesn't have to be a dick.

And yeah, a *big* part of him is mouthing off about him being soft, being an *idiot* again, because it's not like he has any reason to give a shit about *anything* here.

But.

One good world.

One *right* world.

And if he has to carve a place for himself *out* of this world—

Then he's making an okay start at it, if only in his own head.

Right?


	10. Chapter 10

Jason takes the kid out twice during the week he spends living at the gym, and the second time...

Well, it was a gift.

Three dealers and no weapons to speak of once he took their cheap little knives—that's what a lack of gang affiliation will get you in Gotham.

And once he'd taken out the two big ones...

He'd gestured for up, again for *attack*—and Tim had slipped off the bike while the asshole was still trying to back away, moved up quick and silent and *perfect*.

A kick to the back of the knees, a kick to the *head*—and it was all over but the... heh.

Panting.

Tim had looked up at him and it hadn't even seemed like he'd wanted approval or, hell, even an *order*. It had just been a *look*, and Jason had known that if Tim hadn't had the domino on, he would've been a little fucking stunned by it, maybe floored—

("J... that was. That. I want *more*.")

And he'd felt that in his chest, wrapped around his *dick*, and maybe somewhere deeper than either of those places. Maybe better.

Just *remembering* it—

Jason grins to himself and watches Tim work himself on the pommel horse. The kid—he fucking loves that thing, and has from the first days when he'd fall off and come close to braining himself more—far more—often than not. Right now, he's unsteady and wavering some, but there's a tight little look on his face that means he's either in incredible pain or trying not to smile.

Jason knows where he'd lay his money down.

"Five more minutes, then you hit the rings."

"All right," he says, and moves into swinging his legs, turning like the gymnast he'll never really be—

Dick. He needs to get this kid to *Dick*.

He'll get there. Bruce *first*—because Dick would be able to keep his mouth shut for approximately five minutes, and that's including the time he'd take to bitch Jason out for not going to Bruce immediately.

And—last night was Tim's last *here*... until the next time his parents take off. Maybe he can convince the kid to convince *them*...

Haiti.

Let him have as much time as they can, then. And—they'll see.

After Tim's worn himself out on the rings and swung around the uneven bars a little, Jason calls him to his work-table. The collapsible staff *isn't* as good as the one he *will* have from Bruce one day, but it's more than good enough for practice. He puts it in Tim's hand and waits for the question.

He gets a questioning *look*—good enough.

"Back up onto the mats and hold it away from you. *Then* hit the button."

Tim nods and does it—and blinks for the staff's extension. "For... me?"

"You *need* a weapon. And... I happen to know you're suited for this one. For other things, too, but... you'll start here."

Tim swallows and looks the staff over, turning it—it snags on the mats and Tim blushes. "I—I'm not. Too short?"

Well... Jason grins. "You *are* too short. For *life*. But not too short for the *staff*. You're finally getting the strength you're going to need to use it, to keep holding it *up* the way you'll have to if you're going to use it *well*."

Tim... licks his lips. "I. Thank you. I mean—for everything so far. But—thank you."

Jason... doesn't squeeze his eyes shut. He nods, and gestures for Tim to give it back. "Watch. You're going to have to learn a lot about the staff on your own, because I've *barely* worked with them. That means? You're going to have to *play* with it. From now on, you're staying an extra hour *just* for staff work—when you can."

"Oh. Oh—yes, of course—"

"You are *not* to risk getting caught. And *that* means? When your—your parents want you home? You *stay* home."

"I—all right, but they won't—"

Jason holds up a hand. "When you *think* they want you around? You stay. Even if they don't say anything."

*That* makes Tim frown, and—

And. "Tim. Listen to me on this one. I'm not—I'm not trying to fuck with you."

If anything, Tim's eyes are wider than they were for the staff, more *full*—

And it's not like he hadn't seen that coming, so he just holds still for the look in Tim's eyes, and gives it back as much as he can.

After a moment, Tim swallows and nods, blanking his expression. "But... tonight? You'll show me more?"

("I want *more*.")

"Yeah. Watch."


	11. Chapter 11

The knife he puts in Tim's hand three weeks later gets a less positive reaction, but—not quite a negative one, either.

"I wasn't aware knives of this type were made in this—oh. It's sized for my hand. Weighted—balanced for my grip. I."

And the thing is, he'd taught the kid enough *about* knives that it's not a surprise that he can *feel* it, but it still feels—

Feels.

Jason pulls his own—favorite—knife and walks to the mats, gesturing follow, gesturing attack—

"Jason. I—we've never—"

"And that's about to change, kid—"

That gets him a wince, though whether it was for the 'kid' or the tone of his voice is up in the air.

Jason shakes his head. "You're *not* afraid of getting cut *and* you know the moves. Attack."

"I—" And *Tim* shakes his head, but it doesn't look it has anything to do with Jason—as opposed to something in his own mind. And then he's leaping, dodging and moving—

Circling, and if he's aware of the fact that he's waving the knife back and forth—no, he knows he is. He'd *taught* Tim about how you can pull an opponent's attention away from what you're planning to do that way—

Leap—

And Tim kicks instead of striking with the knife, which *nearly* gets him an impressive slash to the calf, and *does* get Jay to dance back a little. Jason smirks. "Nice, but that's not what you're here to learn today."

"Just—testing," Tim says, and starts circling again. This time he's holding the knife perfectly still and tracking Jason with his eyes. He blinks—

Blanks—

And their blades glance against each other with a little metallic scream.

"Faster."

Tim goes for his fingers—

His arm—

Tim spins and rolls, stabbing down for Jason's *foot*—

"And if you get your knife caught, kid? The kind of people you'll need this for *won't* stop for a stab wound to the foot."

"Right, I—right," and Tim switches the knife to his left hand, which means—yeah, strikes aimed for Jason's ribs, his hand—

Slash to the *thigh*—which Jason meets with his knife. "What would that have done?"

"Femoral slash. Deadly within minutes. I. Jason—"

"Don't *stop*."

And Tim makes a quiet, frustrated noise—

And then he *gives* it to Jason, moving like he's exactly as small as he is, making himself a *difficult* fucking target even though Jason's not attacking. Each strike comes with a scream of metal, and they come faster and *faster*. He's using everything Jason had shown him, and his form isn't as steady or perfect as it could be, but that'll come with *practice*.

Jason starts moving for more than just dodges and blocks, gradually speeding up until they're using the whole surface of the mats and occasionally dipping off the edges.

The runs he's been having Tim take have brought his stamina up *high*, and he's calling on it now. The only sounds are their feet, their knives, and Tim's breathing, fast and even with a hitch for every strike.

It's a *sweet* little hitch, speaking of a hesitation he *wants* to give, but isn't, at all. This is flat-out vicious, the kind of thing he'd seen from that other Tim just once, at the Tower, *after* Jason had beaten him bloody. He's going to have to find a way to get Tim to draw that line a little further back, closer to the body that's getting to be a lot more wiry than skinny, a lot more *dangerous* than pathetic—

And Jason knows he's grinning now, showing his pleasure and maybe just a *touch* of his own viciousness. He's making Tim *work* for it, and Tim is fucking well doing his *job*, following Jason all around the fucking gym and making every strike count, every slash fucking *sing* through the air, every blocked strike scream and cry like the world's *nastiest* fucking—bird.

"*Yes*, Tim—"

And *that* gets a cry, but Tim never stops and only falters for a moment before coming right back even *harder*. *Now* his breathing is a little uneven, and he's flushed from his cheeks right down his perfect, unmarked throat.

"This is what I want. This is what we *need*—"

Another sound, but no falter this time, and when Jason fakes a lunge, Tim spins right around it, sending his knife arm up to block a strike that doesn't come—

"Oh yeah, now you're gettin' it—"

"Please, Jason, I." And he cuts himself off, spins and moves when Jason jabs with the knife—

And now he's adding his kicks to it, making it more *real*.

Fighting for his *life*, because Jason only had to tell him once, only had to *show* him once, and he's back to being silent and focused, working through the different styles Jason had taught him in a *pattern*—hm.

"Change it up, I can see you coming."

"You always—yes," he says, and sticks with karate for a stretch of beats before moving to the little they *both* know of muay Thai, which always makes Jason want to dump milk into the kid until he *knows* his bones are as strong as they can be—

Back to karate—

Just a little capoeira—

And then the knife-fighting that Tim was fucking *born* for, because his breathing is *rough* now, but his form is better than it was when he'd *started*, and—

"You feel it, don't you?"

"Jason—"

"How *good* it is. It's singing right through you, isn't it?"

"God, I—*yes*—"

"Good," Jason says, and forces them just that slightest bit faster before *letting* one of the slashes land on his forearm—slightly.

"Oh—"

"Don't you *dare* fucking stop, kid—"

And he doesn't, but his eyes are wilder now, slipping to the blood on Jason's bare arm, the blood on his knife—

Until Jason slashes right in *front* of those eyes—

Tim grunts and redoubles his attack, focusing on Jason's left side—his *wounded* side—precisely the way he should.

"Yeah—"

"Jason, I think—"

"*Don't* think. *Fight*."

But he *is*, and it's fucking beautiful to see, fucking *perfect*. Just—it's something building in his chest, something *tightening* at the base of his spine and in his balls, too.

And now Tim's *definitely* getting tired, and Jason thinks he can maybe feel *that*, too. The burn in the muscles, the sense that his body is throwing up alarms here and there—

He grabs Tim in the middle of a sloppy spin and tosses him—

And he *damned* well keeps his grip on the knife and rolls, getting back up on his feet and coming right back in, quick-stepping, stopping, dodging a couple of slashes Jason throws in to keep things interesting—

And going for his wounded arm again, almost seeming to *hunger* for it, and maybe it's just the moment, but it feels like the blood in Jason's body is trying to come out *faster*, trying to *get* to the kid, to Tim fucking Drake who will never, ever be defenseless now.

He'll always be ready, always be a *fighter*—even if he's not ready for the *street*, yet.

*He'd* done this, crafted this sweet little weapon out of—

Not nothing. Not that.

He tosses Tim again, stalking up to make Tim roll faster, get himself up—

Slash for his legs Jason has to *jump* over, and Tim is up again, moving, pushing himself *right* to his edges and over—

"Does it hurt, yet?"

"I—hn. Yes—"

"Two more minutes," Jason says, mourning because he wants *more*—

And, if anything, Tim pours it on even more, smoothing out his *flow* and showing everything he's learned. Just—everything, and if it takes exhaustion to randomize his fight style, he'll fucking well *keep* Tim tired.

If it takes a little shock and fucking awe to get him to be vicious like this, dangerous like this—

Not *every* one of his slashes and strikes would be killing blows, but he's not holding back even a little, and—

His body is going to *remember* this. Every move, every spin, every slash and strike and *stab*. His body is going to *know* this in every fucking *sinew*, and it'll be there for him when he's desperate or angry, ready for him to make the *move*.

And nothing can ever change that now.

"Time," Jason says, turning away from a slash which would've laid his chest open to the bone.

Tim stands down and bows—and then stands there panting, searching Jason hard with his eyes wide and his body *shaking*. And yeah, he's hard.

Jason *isn't*, but if he was just a couple of years younger... he cups Tim's face, stroking the sharp little cheekbone which, if anything, will just get *more* sharp as he gets older.

"Jason?"

"You know you did good, right? I don't *have* to tell you."

"I. I couldn't even—you *let* me—and I should. Will you let me bandage it? It will be awkward. Um—"

Jason laughs and shakes Tim a little. "Yeah, you can bandage me up, kid. In a *minute*. You. Did. *Good*."

Tim bites his lip and—*tries* to look down.

"Nuh-uh. Focus."

And right back on him again. "I—thank you. I don't know... those moves I was using—"

"You don't know if you can use them on the street, I know. But sometimes you're going to *have* to. There are metas out there, and there are *still* assholes who get themselves hopped up on PCP, and then *nothing* can stop them short of the kind of moves you'd use *on* a meta."

"But—there's the staff for that, and I know I'm still not any good with it—"

"There are *other* times, kid. And you know what they are. *When* they are."

"I—"

"Stop," Jason says, and squeezes the kid's face a little. *Just* enough to hurt—

And the wince is only *behind* Tim's eyes.

Jason nods. "How much of this is what you think about right and wrong and how much of it... heh. How much of it is you wondering what Bruce and Dick are gonna think of you?"

Tim closes his eyes.

"*Open*."

The look in those eyes... miserable. *Ashamed*. And so damned hungry Jason isn't sure he's still breathing right.

"Kid... Tim. Do you see me killing people every night? Blinding people, maybe? Putting people on the transplant list?"

"*No*, but—you still do it. And I can't stop thinking—"

"That Robin isn't supposed to be like that. That Robin is supposed to be *better* than that. Right?"

Tim nods the little bit Jason allows. "But—I'm not saying—you *are* good, and I understand everything you do and the reasons why you *do* it—"

"But you want to be loved, too. I hear that. It's human. It's *natural*—so don't go thinking you're weak. You're strong as hell to keep fighting me on this, and don't think I don't *see* that," Jason says, and smiles ruefully, stroking that cheekbone again—

Tim shivers and closes his eyes—opens them.

"Bruce is gonna lose his *shit* the first time he sees you. Dick will probably deal a little better, but he'll still be suspicious. *Cautious*. But let's stick with Bruce, since Gotham isn't Dick's city, anymore, okay?"

"I—okay."

Jason loosens his grip—he pushes Tim's hair off his forehead, and thinks about telling him to cut it, maybe style it the way he used to in Jason's universe... no, that would just make Jason want to hit him. He smiles to himself and brings his hand back to Tim's cheek—

And Tim shivers and *moans*, squeezing his eyes shut and blushing—

Well—fuck. He'd *had* things to say, good, convincing things about how Bruce will do everything to change the world—and do it *for* a Robin—but. Maybe not now.

Tim *rubs* his face against Jason's palm—definitely not now.

"Kid—"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry—let me. I'm *sorry*," he says, and his face twists—

"*Tim*—"

"*Hn*—" Tim's *knees* buckle, and it's reflex to catch him, hold him up—

"Jesus, did you—"

"Let me. Let me go. Wash up. Change. Please."

"Shit, I—"

"*Please*, Jason," and Tim's eyes are wide and fucking *wounded*, shamed to the point of—

Of. Jason lets go, and the kid—Tim *runs* for the bathroom, and never mind the fatigue that has to be making his muscles feel like fucking burning jell-o right now—

And there's the quiet groan of the water coming on, and—

He'd just made the kid come in his fucking pants. Hell, shit, fuck, damn, and damn some more. If that had ever happened with Bruce before they started screwing, before Jason knew for *sure* that Bruce wanted him—

Jason walks to the bathroom and opens the door to find Tim scrubbing out his pants like maybe there's the blood of a dead baby on it as opposed to just a little come—and there's come smeared on his dick, which is still half-hard.

Tim gives him a look that almost seems *betrayed*, and Jason uses the stand-down gesture before he can think about it—

"I have to. They're *dirty*—"

"There's *come* on them, kid, and if you had any *idea* how many gi I spunked up in my day—"

Tim *moans*, squeezing his eyes shut and *starting* to bring the pants to his face—he makes another sound, lower and more *hurt*, and pushes them under the water again.

"Kid—"

"Just—I'm sorry, and if you give me just a few minutes, I. I'll be able to train more, and there's nothing—I'm not a *Golden Retriever*."

Which makes no sense whatsoever—until Jason remembers and has to wince. "I know you're not. Just—you need to know that this is *okay*, Tim—"

"And you use my *name* now, and that's—that's actually very confusing, Jason, because I don't know why and I don't know how to feel about it," he says, and there's a hard little line on his forehead that'll be a serious *groove* by the time he's seventeen.

Jason reaches out to touch it—

"Please don't. Please don't make me—I think. You should tell me the *rules*," Tim says, and shakes his head. "Because I don't think I know them, and that's a problem. I think."

Rules. *Rules*—for teacher and student, because no, they're *not* friends, and they're certainly not brothers or. Anything like that. Because he'd said so. "Rule number one—you're not allowed to freak about this, even though it's embarrassing as all hell—"

"I'm sorry—"

"Rule number two—you're not allowed to apologize to me for it, because it's not like you interrupted actual training."

"But—"

"Rule number three—even if you *did* interrupt actual training, you're *still* not allowed to apologize, because you're at the age when the erections should be fucking *crippling* you. Especially because of the work we're doing."

"But you said—you *implied*—"

"I know I did," Jason says, and grips the door—too hard. He eases up. "I was wrong. I was treating you like the seventeen year old I knew, instead of—"

"I'm not a *child*! Or—you can't. You can't treat me like that, Jason, not—not if you expect me to—to castrate a rapist or something."

And—heh. "A little fire for that? Good, I like it. But the seventeen year old? Knew these rules. You don't. Yet."

And Tim glares at him a little more—but then he relaxes, all over, and starts regulating his breathing.

"Yeah. Like that. Rule number four—I was a dick to you for a good long time and I know I was. You should therefore take every fucking non-training-related thing I said to you with a grain of salt. You're not useless, you're not pathetic, and the fact that we're not friends—" And Jason has to cut himself off, because *that* part of him is speaking up, the part that thought it was a great fucking idea to parade around dressed up like a goddamned supervillain.

The part that fucked Talia *because* Bruce couldn't ever let himself have her.

The part that used all the great stuff he'd learned in the wrong damn ways for the wrong damned *reasons*—

"Jason—"

"*Wait*," Jason says, and tries to grab his ghost, his fucking internal *demon* by the throat, tries to shake and squeeze the *life* out of it, because he needs this kid, needs *Tim*, and not just because he's so *useful*—

Really?

Seriously?

Jason laughs and closes his eyes, thinking about getting himself in a position to bang his head against something hard—no, he started this, and he's fucking well going to finish this. He looks at Tim *hard*—

And Tim's looking *just* as hard. Harder, searching and studying and just plain *begging* with his eyes... because he's just a little bit harder than he was a moment ago.

"Rule number five," Jason grits, and lets go of the door to step closer, loom a little until Tim's craning his head back. "Rule number five isn't a rule so much as it's a fact—there'll be more rules. I've never taught anyone before you, Tim. I'm making this shit up as I go along—"

"It doesn't. Seem that way."

Jason smiles. "Thanks. But you haven't had a *real* teacher, yet. See, all of this? Is just to get you to the point where Bruce and Dick can take over, take you to the next level and give you all the things I can't. But that's neither here nor there right now. Right now, you're ashamed and hurting and horny, and I want—I want to know what I can do to make it better."

Blush—no, it's a flush, because it's spilling down under his tunic where Jason can't see, because it's filling Tim's dick and making it *rise* for Jason.

"Yeah, I thought so," Jason says, and puts one hand on Tim's shoulder to steady him before wrapping the other around his slick-sticky dick—

"*Jason*—"

"Don't tell me it's not what you want—"

"It is, oh—oh, *God*, Jason, your hand—"

"On you. Wrapped right around you—"

"*Please*—"

"You're gettin' me dirty. Getting my fingers *slick*—"

Tim cries out and closes his eyes, pumping into Jason's fist once, twice—

And then holding himself still except for the shaking, the *trembling*, because this is what he wants.

*Some* of what he wants. "You want it like that night? Short strokes?"

"Ah—nn. You. Please, Jason, I don't *know* --"

"Yeah, I—right," and Jason shakes his head and just *gives* it to him. Totally too much to ask him to be coherent right now, considering—everything. Just.

He's done *damage* here, and whether or not he's making up for it right now—no, he knows he isn't, just as he knows that he can't really *predict* where that damage is going to come out. But.

"You know how excited you got me out there, Tim?"

A questioning noise, and when Tim opens his eyes again they're wild, unfocused—

"Yeah, look at me. *See* me," he says, and gives Tim a *good* squeeze—

And then catches him around the waist when his knees buckle—buckle *again*, really, and—

"You've got kind of a hair trigger, there—which is *completely* normal for—" Someone your age. Fuck. "It's completely normal. Things will start settling down for you in a year or two—"

"Nnh—okay?"

And also not the damned sex talk right now, *Jesus*, where the hell is his head? Focus on this, just *this*: The *rock*-hard dick in his hand and the boy loving it, wanting it—

Eyes tracking so fast over Jason's face that he has to be *memorizing* it—

"Think about what you want, Tim. What you *like*."

"I—your hand. Just—so. All the calluses—"

"Yeah, I get off on those, too. You're getting your own calluses, though—"

"Make—you're making me *better*—oh, God, Jason, please, please—" Cut off with a whimper, and Tim is shaking all over now, sending the feeling through him, making *him*—

"I won't stop, kid. I won't—I've got you now, and it's all right—"

"*Please*—"

"Fuck, don't—don't *beg* like that—"

*Groan*, and—"I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, Jason, I'll do better—"

"*No*. It's not—fuck, it's just that you're getting to me a little here, Tim, making it hard to *think*," and Jason strokes faster, shifts his hold to a more comfortable one and pulls Tim against him harder—

"*Oh*—" And Tim turns his face against Jason's chest, pants and shakes *harder*—

"You're good. You're *good*," and he pets Tim's hair a little, thinks about other ways he can touch—

*Tries* to think about other ways he can touch, but it's all just images he can't really deal with, all things that go a little—or a *lot*—too far. He can't go there, and it wouldn't be any good for Tim—

That's a lie. "Just focus on coming for me—"

Tim nods frantically and starts pushing into Jason's fist again, starts making rhythmic little grunting noises that are really—

*Really*—

How much more *does* he want? How many hours had he spent online trying to figure out what goes where and how *this* worked or that—

"I've got you," he says again, and—

Tim clutches at him, yanks his hands free and strokes, yanks his hands back and whimpers—

"It's *okay*, kid—Tim—"

And Tim's cry is loud and *sharp*, cut off hard—fucking *brutally*—as he snaps his teeth shut and swallows—

And comes all over Jason's hand, spattering the sink a little and shuddering, fucking *spasming*—

"Yeah, that's it. That's just right," Jason says, and holds Tim for another few moments, loosening his grip on Tim's penis and trying to even out his *own* breathing.

Which—okay, so the last guy he'd had sex with was Bruce, years ago, and that has to be part of it, but most of it *has* to be the fact that he has Tim Drake's come on his hand, and Tim Drake's body pressed against his own—

But Tim isn't clutching him so much as staying *put*, and there's so much tension in his body right now... "You okay?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm okay," Tim says, and pushes back against the hold Jason has on him. Jason lets him, and Tim steps back, looking down—he'd dropped the pants somewhere in there, and he picks them up and puts them on the sink, smoothing them out a little. "I think. I got all of it out."

"Then just hang them up anywhere to dry—no, here, I'll take them—" In his *clean* hand, and what's the etiquette for this, exactly? Jason takes a breath and hangs them on the hook on the door, and then he—holds his sticky hand up between them.

Tim blushes and bites his lip, and—

Jason really could just wash it off. The sink's right there, and he—he *should* just wash it off. It's just that something inside him feels a little unfinished. Or maybe a lot.

And—he wants to know.

He moves his hand close to Tim's mouth—and lets the screams in his head do their job, drowning out everything but this moment, this—

Tim leaning in—

And he can stop this, he can call it over and it *will* be, because he *knows* Tim is never gonna push—

Tim opens his mouth—

He can call it a *joke*, though it wouldn't be a very good one. He—

Tim takes *three* of Jason's fingers into his mouth and closes—*almost* closes his eyes. There are just two narrow little bits of blue he can see, and—

Tim's mouth is just as hot and wet as it should be, as it *had* to be, and his tongue is quick and—

Not sharp. They'd left their knives in the other room, all of their *weapons*—

And maybe he should be saying something here, something to make sure Tim knows that it's all right, that there's nothing too fucked up going on here—not for the world *they* live in, anyway—

But Tim is standing still, hands clenched into fists and dick hanging out as he—

He's not *cleaning* Jason's fingers so much as he's going *down* on them, showing off a little with how deep he's taking them—or maybe he just needs them that deep, needs to *show* Jason.

And when Jason moves to pull them *out*—

Hands wrapped around his wrist and forearm, *careful* of the wound that had stopped bleeding sometime when Jason wasn't paying attention, and—back and forth, in and *out*—

"You. You know what you're asking for, Tim?"

Eyes *wide* open—and a nod, and whether it's the nod or the look in his eyes that make it feel like someone—small and deadly—is going for his dick and *squeezing*-- 

It doesn't really matter, because *something* is making him feel this way, and this—could be a whole lot of trouble. A part of his mind just wants to know who *started* it, another part is telling him to slap the kid down, *another* part is telling him that he has to get more training time in today—

And the rest is fucking Tim's mouth with Jason's fingers, slow and just a *little* hard. Just hard enough to test, to *see*—

And Tim pulls off—and licks Jason's hand clean before letting go and clenching his fists at his side again. Really? "Too much?"

"No. But I thought." Tim doesn't bite his lip, but he looks like he *wants* to—right up until he's staring at Jason's crotch.

Right. Jason's just *standing* here waiting for his forebrain to kick in, and—it's really not going to do it. Wing it, then. He puts both hands on Tim's shoulders. "Look at me."

Tim licks his *lips*—and *then* he does it.

"Jesus, kid—Tim. First and foremost? Sometimes I'm gonna call you 'kid' just because I got used to doing it. If I need to call you on the carpet for something, I've got less passive-aggressive ways of doing it," he says, and strokes the place behind Tim's ear where the little cut has already faded to nothing.

Tim tenses... but it doesn't look like a bad tension. It looks like a *more* tension, and Jason's stroking that spot again before he can think—

He *stops*. "Second thing—you don't need to blow me just because I gave you a helping hand. I'm grown, and I can deal with my own erections—"

"If you're going to put it that way, Jason, *I* can deal with *my* own erections. I just—don't want to. As much as I want. Other things. Um."

And Jason *has* to laugh for that, because—"Man, you were doing so *good* at having balls for just a moment there, Tim—" He flicks Tim's ear. "You're old enough to know what you want—I hear that. I just meant that, *at your age*—and yeah, I'm saying it again—sometimes the only thing that can stop the horniness from taking *over* your system is another person. You've got a lot more control than pretty much anyone I've ever seen your age, but you're still human. Get me?"

Tim looks thoughtful and just a *little* rebellious—but he nods. "I... suppose that would help to explain some of the behavior of the students at my school."

"Why *do* you go to public school?"

Tim blinks at him. "I asked, Jason. I wanted to stay in the city and have a lighter, more casual workload so that I could continue following you."

His *turn* to blink. "And your parents just went for it?"

"I told my mother that I thought I could learn more about different sorts of people if I stayed in the city—she liked that. I told my *father* that the Gotham public libraries had a lot more of what I needed for my own projects than any private school's collection, and that I'd look more worldly on my eventual college applications."

He's—not going to blink again. "Okay. That's... heh. Pretty fucking manipulative, actually, but since it works for me..." Jason squeezes Tim's shoulders. "Get yourself cleaned up and changed. We have more to do today."

"Jason, I." Tight jaw and eyes full of *determination*, and it makes them warmer, easier *and* harder to look at—"I'd really. I want to—go down on you. To suck you off."

"Tim—"

"It's not—it's not gratitude or even. Even a sense of owing you something—though I definitely feel as though I do, and there's nothing you can say to change that—"

"It's not going to happen," Jason says, and takes a moment to be proud of himself for it coming out flat and even, no-nonsense—

"Would you... I just want. You never have to touch me again, I—I know you know that, but. You could teach me how to do it right, how to make it good. You know I'd listen—"

"*Tim*." And the grip he has on Tim's hair probably isn't taking the kid anywhere *good* at this point, but it's there, and he's keeping it. "It's not going to happen. Get it out of your head right now."

Tim frowns and blushes hard—"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so—forward. About that. Or—"

"You can *be* fucking forward, Tim. But I'm not about to start something like this with—with you, and that's the way it's going to be. Now clean up and get changed—I'll toss you a fresh pair of pants in a minute."

"Yes, Jason," Tim says, and gives him a look full of waiting, full of patience and—yeah, just a little shame.

"You have *nothing* to be ashamed of and nothing to apologize for."

"If you—yes, Jason."

Hell. One step forward, *three* steps back, and Jason doesn't have clue fucking one what to do about it. He sighs internally and lets go of Tim's hair, backing out and grabbing the pants.

He tosses them in, and watches for long enough to see Tim catching them perfectly—in a way that keeps his vision from being blocked for more than a moment—

And then he moves back to the mats, collecting the knives and setting them aside to be polished and sharpened. He can do that when he's winding himself down for sleep later.

He's got a sheath for Tim's knife that fits on a belt he can wear comfortably—and discreetly—under just about anything, but it's not like he can send Tim home with it. No, he's just going to think harder about how to make it work with a uniform that's both form-fitting enough to be Robin-standard and armored enough to make Tim into the miniature tank he'll *need* to be out there.

He *could* just leave that decision up to the Tailor, but—he doesn't want to. This is *his* addition to the legacy, and he wants it to be as *much* his own as possible. He wants *Tim* to be—

Yeah. *Not* on his knees for Jason, no matter how much Tim thinks he wants it—

He could just *tell* the kid. Explain to him what it's like to be that age and screwing your teacher, your mentor, your partner, your—father. He could show off the scars that *don't* show up under fluorescents, and give the kid a story for each one.

Hell, he could probably get Tim *off* that way, painting pretty and dirty little pictures for him to think about while the lessons—hopefully—sink in.

This will change your whole damned life, kid.

You won't ever get *away* from this.

You'll feel it in your bones until you *die*—and maybe after that, too—because even knowing that I'm anything but perfect, I'll always be the man who changed *you*, and that—

That.

Tim comes out with his game face on.

They train.


	12. Chapter 12

Teaching Tim to fly is harder than he thought it would be, though he has to admit that has more to do with his own paranoia than with anything else. Thus far, they've avoided the cops, but there could be just about anyone watching them on these streets.

Having a rough idea of where the Bat is stomping around—and some of those news reports are getting *damned* serious about vigilantism, and only a tiny part of what's making them that way is what he and Tim get up to—is one thing. Knowing where everyone is who could eventually, conceivably *report* to the Bat is something else.

And two guys flying around? Not so much with the subtle. But Tim is careful and quick, taking Jason's request that he learn *fast* to heart. The training line with the catch on the waist saves his life six different times—while slamming his body against buildings—but after that he's a lot smoother, daring when he needs to be, *trusting* when he needs to be.

If anything, he's a lot more upset about the time he'd wound up breaking some penthouse-living fuck's window than any of the bruises or the de-cel 'rashes' on his palms, and that's something Jason can definitely work with—

And then it's time to train him in the gauntlets, the *real* ones—assuming his hands and forearms don't grow any more in the next couple of months.

That...

Right now, Tim is holding his hands up to look at them, flexing and releasing, flexing and waving them—and then clenching his fists and slashing at the air with the spikes, one arm then the other—

"You'll have to move in for the second slash."

"Yes, of course. I—they're not as strong as actual blades."

Jason smiles and shakes his head. "Not as effective, either... depending on what you're trying to achieve."

Tim smiles back, small and a little shy... and that's new, really. The *look*, like he's tempted to share a joke, or thinks that *maybe* he's been invited to do just that—"I could definitely make someone... give me space, this way."

"You could take out someone's *eyes* that way, kid. But Batman normally just slices into their foreheads," Jason says, and traces a line above his eyebrows.

"Head wounds do bleed... impressively," he says, and Jason would bet that he's thinking of the pimp currently missing an ear and *part* of his nose thanks to Tim, himself. The man had been branding 'his' stable, and Jason still isn't sure if it was the fact of it that had made Tim pull his knife when Jason had signaled him to go in, or the stink—and Tim wrinkles his nose.

"Yeah, I hear you. You're going to go over everything you've learned to do with your hands over the last few months with me while you're wearing those."

"Wouldn't it have been... I mean, why wasn't I training in them in the beginning?"

Jason smiles a little wider and traces a curving line along the black perfection of Tim's gauntleted forearm. "Word to the wise—it only *sounds* like a good idea to jerk off with these on," he says, and raises his eyebrows—

Blush, right where it should be. Maybe right where it has to be. "I wasn't. Thinking that. Much," Tim says, and looks up from under his lashes.

Jason laughs. "Uh, huh. Just remember that you'll still *get* hard even if the skin is too chafed from the texturing on the gauntlets for you to be able to *do* anything about it."

"I. Is it terribly wrong that that just makes me think of some of the more... ah. *Extreme* websites I've visited?"

Jason *snorts* and gives Tim a shove. "I'll just fucking bet, you little pervert. Go on, get on the pommel horse for me."

*Quick* smile, bright and small and nothing but real—and Tim's jogging to do it, moving for him, if not in the way he'd done yesterday, or the week before, or—that first time in the bathroom.

A couple of other times.

Sometimes Tim just *does* get a little too hard for Jason to deal with, even though the only thing Tim does at those times is look at Jason a little longer, or maybe he means *deeper*. He keeps *working* right up until Jason calls time, and then he waits for *orders*—

And Jason thinks, maybe, that it's a problem that the orders he gives are all about getting Tim up to the loft, getting his pants down and getting a little slick on his hand before wrapping it around Tim where the kid needs it, where Jason—needs it to be.

Yesterday, Tim had finally clutched at Jason a little once he started pumping into Jason's fist, had looked up into Jason's eyes with all the need and hunger anyone could *want*. His lips were parted, and it had been fucking *impossible* not to imagine sliding his dick between them, or maybe just painting his lips a little with pre-come—

Or maybe kissing him, *feeling* him and, yeah, giving *that* to him, too.

Taking it for himself, because it's hard to look at Tim and not see something he'd created, hard to look—

Right now, those are moves Tim wouldn't *know* if Jason hadn't taught him, and taught him how to smooth *out*. He's wearing the gi Jason had had tailored for him, and—fuck, even his *breathing* is something Jason had given him, since the sensei at his dojo just hadn't done a complete enough job.

Tim is *his*, if not entirely his creation, and that—

Is this something like what Bruce had felt? Is this how it *worked*? No, it can't be, because—

("From the very first moment, Jay. The sound of your voice, the scent of your fear—")

It's not, but it's—something. Maybe like what Bruce had had with Dick, where every day turned him a little more from a half-wild circus boy—

("The trick is to grow *out* of the urges, little wing—")

Into the man he's become, the very *different* sort of weapon, made more out of grace than viciousness, and—what had it been like to decide to let go of his parents' sense of right and wrong and cleave to Bruce's, instead? Hell, maybe he should be asking Bruce for *advice*—

Hey, Bruce, I've got this kid who would make a damned good assassin—when he's not just being one of the most effective operatives this city has ever seen, anyway—but he's still just a little too *attached* to you, to all the *ideas* of you he's built over the years—no, you *can't* have him, yet, he's *mine*.

Jason laughs to himself—quietly enough to keep Tim from hearing him. Bruce probably *won't* be all over Tim the way he was all over him. Bruce doesn't *handle* grief all that well, after all, and right about now...

Well, maybe he's telling himself all sorts of things about how he'll never take another partner again, never *risk*—

("I was *lost*—")

It will *be* hard, but he'll have to test Tim, have to *try* him. Tim knows too much for it to be otherwise, and there's no way he's grieving so much that his paranoia is offline.

He'll learn everything there is to know about Tim Drake—perhaps while Tim, himself, is gagged and tied to a chair—and *then* there'll be tests. How far, how heavy, how *much*. And he won't be able to keep himself from seeing all the things Tim would be able to *do* on the street, and then—

And then.

Of course, it's possible—probable—that Jason will have to make his own appearance. The things he's taught Tim include a great *deal* of things Bruce had never taught *him*. Tim's story will thus be difficult to credit on a number of levels... he doesn't know. He isn't *sure*. But the idea of Bruce checking Jason's *work*—

There's something to it. Something hot and almost strangling, something tight and sharp at once. Look what *I* can do, Bruce. Aren't you proud of your *son*?

Yeah, *that*, and that's enough to make Jason want to claw out his own brain and use his skull for a begging bowl, but there's also the other part of this. The—

You made this *okay*, Bruce. You showed me how it could work, how it could feel so good and right to *be* the boy under your hands, pressed to your bed, bent over your fucking *car*.

You made me *pity* Dick and Roy for not having this, put hot little fantasies in my head about Donna and fucking Wonder Woman—okay, I would've had those *anyway*—

No. It's no one's fault but his own that he wants Tim to get *that* hard for him again, that his palm fucking aches—

That sometimes now, when the light gets indigo just before dawn hits, he's thinking about other orders he can give. About making Tim strip down so he can see all the *progress*, so he can drag the knife along the lines of muscle and bone until he sees red. Just welts, because he doesn't have to teach Tim about blood, anymore—

(The way he looks at the fresh scar on Jason's arm.)

He can rub the kid down, teach him more about how to relax, how to give *in*, because the alternative is waking up too sore to do anything, some days—

(The way his hard little hands *feel* when he clutches, when he shows that much want—)

He can *touch*, and show Tim that maybe he *doesn't* want everything he's been thinking about. He can push and shove and fucking *breach*—

("Oh, Jason, *Jason*, it's good, it's—*ah*—")

And—

*Is* this what wanting someone who isn't anywhere in Bruce's huge, fucked up sphere of influence feels like? Bruce had obliterated *everything* when they were together, turning him into someone who looked at pretty girls and wondered what their *personalities* were like, *fucking* him into someone who just kind of fucking *missed* the sexual aspects of the people around him until he just got more and more addicted to what Bruce could give.

And how many times had he slipped into Talia and told himself he was feeling what Bruce couldn't?

How many times had he done everything *short* of fucking her with Bruce's dick, touching her and squeezing her and *tonguing* her in every way Bruce had taught him, shown him, taken...?

Here, if nothing else, he has something new—except, of course, for the breadth and *scope* of the desire. *Here*, there's something just for him, because Tim had never gotten a chance to smile at Dick or *perform* for Bruce—

Because.

It won't be long now, something dark and a little cold whispers in the back of Jason's mind, and maybe—*maybe*—it's talking about the order already in to the Tailor, and how he just has to give the man the word for the suit to be ready a *week* from that day.

And maybe it's not.


	13. Chapter 13

He spends his short patrol renewing contacts and getting the word on what's going down with which gang *where*—the way he does once a week, without fail, no matter *how* much it hurts not to be breaking the heads of the deserving. 

It's something Tim needs to see, anyway, especially the part where he cultivates new contacts via threats, bribes, and the—judicious—application of a little pain. *Just* a little. If the weasels feel too much pain, they tend to get resentful—and start carrying tales to *other* people.

He lets Tim question a guy about heroin movement, and feels something—something *else*, *again*—move in him when Tim starts asking about guns without so much as a signal from him.

So good.

So *close* to being ready, and it's fucking hard not to let Tim wear his gauntlets on their little outings, not to make the call to the Tailor right fucking *now*—

But the slim, simple, and perfectly fitted assassin gloves are good enough for now, especially since Tim, at this point, wears them like the oh-so-deniable second skin they're supposed to be.

And when their target telegraphs a lie by scratching at his ear, Tim pulls his knife and presses the tip just beneath the man's left eye—

"Hey, you don't—you're *Robin*—"

"Not yet. But you don't want to lie to me," Tim says, flat and about as menacing as a voice like his can get. Heh.

Jason crosses his arms and lets himself lean against the alley wall—

"Hey, Nightwing, come put a *leash* on this fucking kid—*ah*—"

Quick little cut beneath the eye, not too deep. Just enough to make a point. "You guessed wrong," Jason says. "He doesn't like that."

And—yes, Tim really is easing the tip of the knife into the cut and working the sides of it apart, which *may* be a little too much pain—

"Fuck, Jesus, okay, okay! I'll tell you! It's just that he threatened my kids, and you know I love my kids—"

"Talk," Tim says, and he does. Just the way he should.

When they're done, and they've let the weasel of the moment scurry on home, Tim pulls an antiseptic wipe from Jason's belt pouch without a word or hesitation and thoroughly cleans the knife before tucking it away, just the way he always does—and then he pauses.

"What's up?"

"I worry about the sheath breeding infection," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow behind the mask.

Jason smiles at the way it pulls Tim's features out of true and stands straight again. "I flush them once a week with alcohol. It's hell on the things, but—there are always more when they wear out."

Tim nods and moves into something like an attention-stance—

"Bike," Jason says, and soon it'll be time to teach Tim how to drive, but he's going to want the kid's parents on vacation for that, to have the *time* to take the kid out into Jersey's vanishingly small countryside...

They'll go soon. They're *due* for it—

Haiti.

Not yet. Not—

Jason takes them around to his other—older and tamer—contacts, and he can feel Tim itching for something to do, something to fill the hole in him Jason had helped to *shape*—if not create. Hell, *he's* itching, and there's always *something* to be done in Gotham—it's the greatest city in the world for people who make the kind of lifestyle choices they do—but he'd set the rules down for himself when he got here, and he'd been right the first time.

He takes Tim home, instead, and always now there's a sense that *this* time the lights will be on in Tim's room because his parents had come in to check on their only child and found out that he was running around God only knew where. He's even come up with the stories Tim can tell—though he's sure right down to his bones that Tim's got better ones all saved up in his twisted little brain.

But the lights aren't on, and there's nothing to do tonight but watch Tim move over the rooftops on his own, watch him swing right into his window—

Or follow, because that's what he's doing, and he doesn't know why.

Tim doesn't, either—that much is clear by the tension in his neck and shoulders, by the way his movements aren't as smooth as they could be when he peels off the domino and removes the sheath and gloves before stashing them away in the compartment he'd built himself beneath his desk.

"J...?"

What is he doing here?

"I—did I make a mistake? I—should've hurt Cramer more?"

Jason shakes his head, and—what is he *doing* here?

"Ah... less?" And Tim can't keep the incredulousness out of his voice, at all, which is really damned *endearing*—

"Show me the twelfth kata," he says, because it's the one that comes out the least when Tim's sparring with him, and Jason's not sure why. It's neither particularly brutal nor difficult—given the skills Tim *has* at this point—

And Tim is moving easily, smoothly, perfectly despite the ass-kicking boots and the body armor he has on under his loose sweats. He looks—

He looks like the weapon he was always born to be, like a boy who'd never had Bruce take it easy on him with the training—

Why *hadn't* Bruce taught Tim more of the good things, the *dangerous* things he knew? Is it because he was afraid Tim would be *too* good at them? He hadn't taught them to Dick, Jason knows, because he thought they wouldn't be any use on the street. He hadn't taught them to Jason because Jason hadn't had the *control* to use them the way Bruce *thinks* they ought to be used.

But Tim?

He doesn't know and maybe he never will, because it's been a month and a half since an anomaly had popped off, and *that* one had showed a fucking *forest* where Gotham was supposed to be—

And Tim's still moving, and his room is more than big enough that Jason can move around him, take him in in three dimensions, really fucking *study* the body he can only see in hints and glimpses right now, but which he knows has become as tight and darkly sweet as whipcord, has become *right*, at last, even though his shoulders won't even start broadening for another year, maybe—

Maybe—

"Stop," Jason says, and his hands are on Tim's shoulders, his body is closer than it needs to be to Tim's own—

And Tim is searching Jason's *mask*, because that's all he can see right now, that's all he can *know*—

"Why don't you use these moves more often?"

"They're too—I. They're tempting. Because they're easy. And they make me think that I could just *not* use the other ones. Should I...?"

"Everything, Tim. You use—you use everything," Jason says, and he's massaging the tension out of Tim's shoulders, making him feel—

Could it maybe be something like a poison slipping from Jason's fingertips down into Tim's skin? Something to make this shared, as fucked up as it ever gets, fucking *intimate*—

"Oh. That feels very—um. I didn't realize how tense I was."

"You should probably just assume you're *always* tense, kid," and Jason's voice is too low to his own ears, too heavy—"'cause you always *are*."

Tim laughs quietly. "I—suppose you have a point. Do you want me to—should I lie down?"

Yes. "Strip off, first," and it takes a little too *much*, but Jason can let go, back *off*—

And it's the sight he's seen countless times, but he's not surprised that it feels like more right now, that it's *getting* to him—

A break, something like a *reprieve* when the body armor comes off and Jason can take it from Tim's hands, tuck it away in the little compartment—

And turn in time to see Tim sitting down on the bed to unlace his boots. The Tim in that universe had worn tabi—until he hadn't, for reasons Jason wasn't privy to. *Probably* a breakthrough in flexibility and speed that allowed him to switch to the heavier ones, but Bruce might appreciate seeing Tim in tabi, more. They'd undoubtedly been his choice...

He'll get Tim both.

The socks come off, and then he stands again, ditching his jeans and leaving his briefs. He has no reason to tell Tim to switch to boxer-briefs. He has no reason—

"Everything, Tim."

And Tim doesn't even look *up* before skinning the briefs off, revealing his quarter-hard dick, revealing that it's rising the way it always does for Jason, sooner or later—

"On your belly."

"All right," and Tim does it, tense again, but easing under Jason's hands just like the touch is a command in itself—it is. He's two-thirds of the way down Tim's back when he sighs, turning his head to the other side. His eyes are closed, lashes dark on his cheeks, body loosening, becoming more pliant—

It won't stay that way, and it won't really go back to this even after he makes Tim come—he *knows* that now, and so he has to. To enjoy this while he has it, to enjoy *Tim*, who is no one's boy but his own, no one's *Robin* but his own, and the fact that he hadn't thought he'd needed one—

No one ever, ever, ever so much as gave him a damned cookie to think, and there are *reasons* why. And—maybe it's better to be smiling for this, to be laughing a little as he moves to Tim's glutes—

His tight little ass. Hardly any curve to it, at all, nothing to catch the eye or put a fire under the imagination. Tight.

Move on.

Tim's thighs are better. Lean like a runner's, long for the inches he *will* get eventually, and then just a little longer for the fact that he's built that way. And the calves are perfect for Tim's size and build, hard and defined, honestly attractive...

"Bruce... is gonna put you in so *many* dresses," Jason says, and waits for—

A cough, not a choke. Oh, well. Jason moves back up to Tim's shoulders—

"Um. Why? I mean... undercover work?"

"Uh, huh. I also think he gets off on it a little."

*That* gets him a choke, and Jason rewards Tim for it with a hard stroke down the slight dip of his spine.

"You never think about Bruce's kinks?"

"He's—he's Batman. I mean... kink? Really?"

Jason lets the question sit there for a little while. It's not that he's thinking about how to answer—at this point, he knows exactly what wants to come out of his mouth—but. Tim's shoulders. His *neck*, and Jason wants to carve a little something on the back of it, some symbol or *something* to make Tim wear his mark for life.

He'll lick the blood away and smear ash in it to make sure it's a *good* scar—

Except that just about anyone would be able to see it, considering how short Tim's going to *have* to keep his hair for the rest of his life, and—no. No.

Jason kneels up. "Turn over."

"Ah—I—"

"I already know you're hard, Tim," Jason says, and taps the back of Tim's neck with two fingers. "It's all right."

"O-okay." Tim turns, almost laughably careful to keep his dick from brushing against Jason's thigh.

Jason strokes Tim's chest with his palms, feeling the thin layer of muscle over Tim's ribs, the slightly heavier pecs—

Tim's eyes are wide open and—confused.

"He's the Bat*man*, not the Bat, Tim. Men? Have kinks."

Tim nods. "I just—I never. Thought about that."

"There's a disguise closet in the Cave. When I first started training, it was still full of Dick's things—and there were way more dresses than there should've been," Jason says, and reaches up to massage Tim's long—graceful, he can admit—throat.

"Nn—ah. I... see."

Jason lets his smile get a little harder. "Yeah, I think you do."

Tim nods and bites his lip. Against questions he's afraid to ask? Maybe. A *part* of Jason wants to order him *to* ask, just to see what would come out of that reddening little mouth—if not, necessarily, to make things any clearer for the kid—but he hasn't exactly been nice or easy about that part of his life with Tim, and he doesn't want more tension.

Not right now. "Twice he put me in dresses. I looked like a dyke. A *mean* dyke, because there was nothing that would get the scowl off my face."

Tim—blushes. "I—oh."

"He made me shave. When I wouldn't do it? He had Alfred dose me with a sedative and shaved me himself. Not with a straight razor—I might've tolerated that a little better, heh—but with one of those girly little razors that bend in the middle. No nicks, scratches, or missed spots. It made my legs look huge and ridiculous, and made my armpits feel *naked*. You ever feel naked in your armpits, kid?"

"I—can't say that I. Have. Um—"

"I *don't* recommend it," Jason says, and moves to Tim's chest. "The first time he did it was before we were fucking, but I could see it in his eyes. That *want*, and the way it flared when I bent over in that dress—too much for him to bank it again before I was up and looking at him."

"You. You knew he wanted you, but you... didn't?"

"I was *pissed*, kid—and I was scared shitless, too. Twenty years older than me. Bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, *better*. In *every* way. He could do anything he wanted with me, and all I'd be able to do if I didn't like it—is take it," and he lets his thumbs find Tim's nipples the way they want to, the way it feels like they *have* to—

"Oh. Oh. Jason...?"

"Watching him in the shower—communal, by the way, so start getting used to that thought now—and seeing that huge fucking dick of his..." Jason shakes his head and *pinches*—

Tim arches—

And drops when Jason eases the pressure. "I'd never taken anyone that big. I'd only been fucked up the ass six times when Bruce pulled me off the street. It would've been more than that, but I used to run from the men who wanted that from me—whether or not I got the money first."

Tim is—fucking *crimson*.

"Yeah. I used to hustle. Didn't think about that, did you? What a kid has to do for himself on the street?"

"I—no. I didn't know. I—I don't know what to say."

Jason smiles. "Then don't say anything. Don't worry—you don't have to think about it too much. I *won't* be testing you on it."

Tim swallows and nods. "But. You were... you thought it would. That he would *hurt* you?"

"He's just a man, Tim. Even with everything else he is, even with all the things he does for Gotham and the rest of the world, and even with how *good* he is. Men have—needs," and Jason pinches Tim's nipples again—

"Oh—God. Jason, I—please—"

"Please what? Touch you more? Don't hurt you? Or *should* I hurt you?"

Tim's eyes are wild for him—*just* that fast. "Anything you want, anything—I'll do anything—"

"Yeah. I know you will. And maybe one day you'll do *everything* for me—"

"*Yes*—"

"But not tonight," Jason says, and it hurts to put a limit on this, even one as small as that. It makes the itch rise in his skin, intensify until it's almost a *burn*, and yeah, Jason can feel the prickle of fresh sweat. "I want you."

"Oh—you can. Oh, Jason, *please*—"

"And when you beg? I want to fuck you, hard and fast until I'm coming right up your little ass, filling you up and making you slick enough that I can do it *again*," and Tim's nipples are so small even though they're hard, almost hard to hold *on* to—

But that doesn't stop him from pinching, from rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers and noting that Tim *hadn't* begged again, that his eyes are wide and—yeah, there's fear there.

And there's nothing he can do but own the fact that he'd needed it to be there, that it makes this—

Can anything make this right? Jason shakes his head and smiles again, knowing it looks hard, old—

("Little one, your smiles make me want to press my throat against your lips—but only if we're near to a Pit.")

Little one. And what would she call Tim? Anything? Nothing until she saw him *move*—

"I'd tell you that you didn't *have* to be scared... but we both know that's not true," Jason says, and moves his hands to Tim's throat, pressing his thumbs in just a little. "Don't we?"

"I'm. I think I'm... confused?"

Which... it makes sense. "Then I'll break it down for you. We're going to have sex—right here in your bed. It's going to be fucked up. And we're both going to like it, anyway."

"Oh. I... Jason. Could we... will you let me suck you?"

Jason... licks his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I will," and Jason squeezes, watching Tim's eyes go wide, *freaked*—

And watching—*feeling*—Tim relax, all over.

"You trust me that much?"

Tim nods—

"No, go ahead and tell me. I'm not squeezing hard enough to kill your ability to talk—"

And Tim's dick twitches hard. He's leaking steadily, slick and hard enough that he's reaching for his own abdomen—"I. I have to. Trust you. There aren't any other—" Tim bites his lip and shakes his head.

"No other options? Yeah, okay, I can see that," Jason says, easing his grip and moving his hands until he's stroking Tim's face, his fucking *downy* cheeks, his bitten lip and his upper lip, too, taking a moment to try to feel the difference in texture, try to *know* it—"I've been there. And maybe we all have to go there, sooner or later."

"All—um. Vigilantes?"

"All of us who start out this young, anyway. Open your mouth for me."

Tim nods and does it, closing his eyes—opening them again when Jason pushes two fingers in, but he doesn't open them all the way. His eyes are heavy-lidded now, *hot*, and the fear seems to be entirely gone.

This is familiar *enough* for Tim, close enough to what he's entirely sure that he wants, and it makes Jason fucking *hunger* to choke Tim with his dick, to slide it in *deep* just to see Tim—

Change his mind? Plead with those big eyes?

He's not sure, but he knows if he doesn't start this *soon* that he's not going to have *any* control to speak of, and that—that would be a bad thing. It *would*.

He fucks Tim's mouth a *little* and then pulls out—and has to bite back a groan for the way Tim tries to *follow* Jason's fingers. He cups Tim's face with his other hand and *pushes* it back down—

"Oh—sorry—"

"I'll tell you when you should be sorry. Eagerness is *good* for this, kid. It—heh. Keeps me on the right track," Jason says, and circles Tim's nipples with his wet fingers—

"Jason—Jason, I won't. I don't think I'll last. Long."

"No, you won't. But that's okay—you'll go *again*," Jason says, moving off the bed—

Tim whimpers and *reaches*—

"Easy now. It's all right," and he has a decision to make. Either he does this with his pants and underwear and jock down around his thighs, or he makes like he's going to stay a while. Neither option feels like the best possible way to do things with the kid's parents right down the fucking hall, but—

But they're not coming anywhere near here. Hell, if they heard a sound, they'd probably put in earplugs and call themselves giving their kid privacy the way modern parents should—no, he's not thinking about them. They'd given him the perfect kid, the perfect *canvas* to paint on, and for that he owes them... no kid at all.

No *Tim* for them to ignore, for them to forget about as they traipse all over the damned world—

Haiti—

Not today.

He's naked from the waist down when he crawls back onto the bed, hard enough that he has to stroke himself a little once he sits back on his heels. Tim looks like he's pretending that he's *tied* to the bed—and that's certainly an *idea*, what with those bedposts right there—

"C'mere," Jason says, and holds on to the base of his dick while Tim bends his legs back and rolls gracefully, perfectly up onto his knees.

His eyes are wide again, and his dick is as hard as he's ever seen it, as ready—

He *wants* this, and somehow that's enough—when added to everything Jason wants. "You're just going to take the head in right now, Tim. We'll go from there."

Tim nods and bends down, comes closer, leans in—

And makes a soft, pleased sound once his lips are wrapped around the head—

And *sucks*, hard and fucking *good*—

Jason can't hold in a gasp, but he *can* swallow back the groan. No reason to be too loud—

Or every *possible* reason to be too loud, because Tim's sucking in hard little pulses, making a noise for each one, and that tongue. That—

"Easy. Easy—"

Questioning noise, and Tim looks up without *stopping*, and that—

Jason laughs and lets his breathing do what it wants for just a little while, just long enough for him to get a hand on the back of Tim's head, to cup and pet a little—

Tim shivers and sucks *harder*—

"No, not—not that—"

Another questioning noise, and Tim has *stopped* sucking... but he's clearly not even *thinking* about pulling off.

"Fuck, you're—heh. Hungry. Take more."

Nod and *down*—gag and a *shocked* noise.

"Yeah, it's *not* easy. But you'll get it," Jason says, and strokes Tim's hair, the unmarked back of his neck, his shoulders—Fuck it, he thinks, and pulls the knife he keeps at his back, flashing it past the edge of Tim's field of vision—

No sound at all. No doubt, no—oh, but there's fear in those eyes and plenty of it. It's just that it's fear of *failure*, and, as ever, he can work with that.

"Don't worry so much, kid," and he gives Tim a little gesture with his chin. "I won't cut you if you fuck up. I'll just cut you if I *want* to." And—Tim's lines are so *sharp*, almost more like some kind of futuristic vehicle than a boy, and yeah, Jason wants to ride.

It's just that he also wants *this*—tracing Tim's neck and shoulders with the point of the blade while he tries to work out scientifically how to take more of Jason's dick—

And with the flat as he tries—

Again—

*Again* —

Jason sighs and traces a spiral on the back of Tim's neck with the point as Tim pants through his nose and tries to get control of himself. "You shouldn't worry that you don't feel good, kid. Hot and wet, tight and *struggling*. That's a lesson about this you might not have picked up in—heh—all of your *reading*."

"Mm?"

"Oh, yeah, do that again, pressing hard with those lips of yours—" Jason grunts and rocks his dick back and forth, not getting much depth but getting a *lot* from Tim's low, *heartfelt* groan. "I know you want me to fuck your mouth, that you want to be *able* to have me fuck your mouth without gagging or coughing, but—that lesson..."

Tim nods and starts sucking in pulses again, being just as good as he *can* be as he waits—

"Good, good—boy. Mm. It *feels* good when you fail, kid. A nice little uh... mm. Call it a *flutter* when you cough, a fleshy little *push* when you gag—"

*Down* again, and this time Tim stays right there, gagging and turning *red*—

"I *won't* like it if you puke on my dick, though," and Jason pulls Tim up again, just far enough that he can keep panting and mouthing the head. "You just gotta swallow me," and Jason drags the flat of the knife up and down Tim's spine, down and *up* with the point—

"Hm—mm?" *And* a lick for Jason's slit, a little bit of stabbing—

"Oh, that's—yeah, you *have* been thinking about this a little, but not enough. *Open* your throat for me. Like—taking a breath without actually getting any air, or... pretend you've got a quantity of liquid you want to get down your throat in the shortest possible length of time.... since I know you've never actually chugged a beer."

Tim nods and takes a deep breath, another one—

"That's right, *get* ready. Because once I'm in you? I'm not pulling out for a good long while—"

Tim's *hips* jerk and the noise he makes is something between a grunt and a *shout*—but since it's muffled by Jason's dick, he can live with it. He *grips* Tim's hair just to see—

Another jerk of the hips and Tim's going down, slowly this time, and the feel of his lips on Jason's shaft—

The drag of his sharp little *tongue*—

And the feel of him swallowing, over and over. *Working* the head of Jason's dick and making Jason *need* to rock his hips, *push* against that resistance while Tim shakes and—

God, Jason thinks he can *taste* that fear, thinks he can hear the sound of that freaky little brain working overtime—

What if he can't do it? What if he stops? Yeah—

"I won't stop. Though I *will* get impatient," Jason says, and digs in enough with the point of the knife to get a *scratch* for Tim's spine—while Tim holds *still* for it with everything but his pumping hips. And that—"Is it the scratch? Or the fact that I *want* to mark you?"

And Tim looks up at him for the first time—it feels like it's been much too long, and knowing Tim's naked doesn't do a thing for the *weight* of those eyes, filled with all the heat in the damned world, all the fear and the *need*—

Bruce—

Jason hears himself grunt, but it's nothing compared to the fact that he's rocking his hips again, fucking that sweet little mouth, good little mouth, *working* little mouth—

Tim groans and catches Jason's rhythm *immediately*, and tries to take Jason deeper again, swallowing as he goes, and it won't be long.

It—

Jason *knows* it won't be long, because eventually he's just going to grab Tim's fucking *ears* and shove in—

No, it won't be long. Tim's going to *get* this, the way he gets everything else, and Jason will be his first for—everything. The *one*, even if Tim would've preferred it to be Bruce or Dick—

They can't *handle* this kid. He's too raw for them, too sharp and needy, too dangerous in all the wrong ways. Bruce must've *blunted* Tim in Jason's universe somehow, must've shaved off all but the most deniable and *immediately* useful sharp edges—

Fucking *A*, that *mouth*—

"Want you, kid. Want to fuck you, take you—make you come all over yourself—"

*High* noise—but Tim manages to keep himself from lunging for it, taking more in millimeter by fucking *millimeter* until the pressure is impossible, perfect—

He knows what will be *better*—"C'mon, now. Open *up*—"

And it feels like fucking vacuum, and his body knows what that means before it sinks all the way into his brain, knows—

*In*, and it feels like Tim should be screaming for him, should be fighting and *begging*—

But Tim's eyes are wide and *full*, wondering—

Jason smiles and *knows* it comes out fucked beyond all *recognition*—

Tim closes his eyes and *sucks*, *carefully* resting his sweaty palms against Jason's thighs, and somehow, maybe—

Even *Bruce* would get sweaty palms for this sometimes, but it still makes Tim *feel* young, younger than he looks, younger than he *is*. God, just a fucking *kid*, and Jason's making him take this, making him fucking *hold* Jason's dick in his throat while air gets to be more and more of a *necessity*—

Had a part of him been training Tim to hold his breath *just* for this, as opposed to for all those times when he'd have to be in the damned Gotham sewers, or, fuck, in the *river*?

A *kid*, a *boy*—

His boy, and no one else's. No one's—"They don't *want* you this way, Tim—"

A shudder, and dragging the edge of the knife over Tim's shoulder like he's shaving the kid can't be anything like soothing, but he does it, anyway, and then moves to the other shoulder, his back—

"Maybe—nnh. Maybe they never, ever will—"

God, that *nod*. Such a small movement and so much *in* it, and yeah, Jason's feeling it in his spine, his balls—

He cups the back of Tim's head with his free hand and squeezes. "But I do, kid. I want you *just* like this—and a lot of other ways, too. You're—always gonna have this, long after I'm gone—"

*Clutch* for his thighs—released *almost* immediately—

"*No*—go ahead. Hold *on* to what you want, touch me—"

Low groan that doesn't go anywhere, muffled fucking *obscenely*, and Tim is shaking all over, stroking Jason's thighs hesitantly and yeah, pumping his hips at nothing—

"Gonna come for me?"

Nod and Tim strokes up to the creases between Jason's thighs and his abdomen, strokes up *over* Jason's abdomen—and down to Jason's balls—

"*Fuck*, yeah, stroke me, squeeze me—"

Another groan—and Tim goes rigid, still everywhere save for his *pumping* hips—

Yeah. "*Come*—"

And the sound is still muffled, but Jason thinks that it *wanted* to be a scream, wanted to be high and desperate and perfect as those slim little hips work and *work*—

And Tim's body slumps, his hands spasming on Jason as he swallows more, tries to give this *back*—

He will.

Jason takes a handful of Tim's hair and tugs until he's only *just* in Tim's throat before hauling Tim back down, *on* him, and it's just as good as it should be, just as perfect—

Sweet—

*Again*, then, and again, and Tim is loose and *obedient* if not pliant, not begging for air, yet, not doing anything but stroking and letting himself be *moved* until Jason stops. "Now—now you. *Fuck* yourself."

And Tim does it fast, does it—

God, *pressure*, tightness, and that tongue working against the underside of his dick, those lips kissing Jason's mound until he just wants to hold Tim still again, make him take it just a little faster than he's already going. Not because this isn't fantastic, but just *because*—

Spasm, and that has to be for the lack of air. He has to let Tim take a breath, but he doesn't *want* to—

"God, the ways I can *use* you—"

Muffled *grunt* and Jason wants more, wants to *take* more, longer strokes, something—

He yanks Tim's hair and Tim *stops*, trembling, spasming *again*—

He pulls out of Tim's throat and listens to the gasps, feels the panting against his dick—and a careful little squeeze for his balls.

"Yeah, keep that up, keep—" The moan comes out of him before he's ready for it, but he'd had to get *used* to the feel of Talia's hands on him after Bruce—and now he has to get used to the feel of Tim's. Calluses he'd put there, strength he'd *forced* into the kid—"Take me again. *Do* it—"

*Down*, and Tim's shaking all over, probably shocked that he could manage it—

"Good. So *fucking* good," and he shoves in that last little bit, that last perfect fraction of an inch and holds himself there—"Suck me. Hard as you can," he says, and turns the knife again, giving Tim another scratch parallel to the first and getting another deep little groan—

Another *shake*—

"You'll feel those tomorrow under your—hn. Under your shirt. You'll *know*—"

A nod, fervent and *sharp*, somehow, fucking—

Fucking *deadly*, and how is Jason ever supposed to have anything like a normal relationship when it's so good fucking weapons, crazy people, dangerous people you never want to turn your *back* on—

And fucking Tim's face is gonna kill him before it makes him come, because Tim *isn't* ready for the long strokes, Tim will choke and his throat will fucking *reject* Jason's dick, and he can't *take* that right now, can't—

He *doesn't* want to hurt Tim, not this way. It's too small, too fucking *petty* when he could be up the kid's ass and making him move, moving the *bed*—

Jesus, he *needs* more, and he knows he's fucking Tim harder, knows that this *does* have to hurt, or at least be a little uncomfortable—

But Tim's thrusting against the bed again. He's *hard* enough again to do that, need that—

"Don't fucking come again, yet. Hold *still*—"

Rigid, *tense*—perfect. And squeezing Jason's sac in rhythm with Jason's thrusts, with his own *sucks*, and maybe this could be—

No, it's not enough. Not—

He promises himself, deep down and dead fucking serious, to teach Tim how to *really* suck dick sometime when he's not already this hard. For now—

He pulls Tim off and shoves until he's on his back, legs bent beneath him *right* up until Jason yanks them out straight—and Tim further down the bed—

"Oh—"

"The first time Bruce had to yank me into place—I was trying to get away. He was... doing something I didn't want him to do."

"I—hurting. You?"

Jason smiles. "*That* would've been a lot easier to take. Maybe I'll show you what he did, sometime—no, I definitely will. Who knows? Maybe you'll like it."

"But." The frown on Tim's face—

He's not gonna laugh. Just—no matter how much—"He's *just* a man, kid—"

"But he *loved* you. He—I saw the way he looked at you, at—at the parties—"

"The parties. Heh. You know how many times we slipped out of one of those to fuck in a bathroom? A cloakroom? A *janitor's* closet?"

"Um. I only know about. Four. When you came back, you were very flushed, and I—he *loved* you—"

"Sometimes love *hurts*, Tim," And Jason crawls up over Tim, leans in and *licks* Tim's swollen mouth—"You taste like my dick. I like that."

"So do *I*—"

Jason laughs and licks him again, again—and Tim shakes for him again, opens his mouth—

Jason shoves *in* with his tongue, and maybe it *shouldn't* feel this good, but it *does*. Like—he doesn't know, but there's warmth to it *under* the heat he feels when Tim moans, need—

And the kiss is a lot harder than he wants it to be—

He doesn't know *what* he wants it to be—

But then Tim's hands are on his shoulders, *shaking* on his shoulders, touching and moving back over and over again like a kid who just doesn't *believe* the burner is as hot as it is—

Jason makes the kiss deeper and *covers* Tim a little bit, fucking against those long, lean thighs and feeling the kid shake like he's freezing to death, like he doesn't know what to *do* with himself—

Except that he's sucking Jason's tongue like maybe Jason will make him stop the way he'd made Tim stop sucking his *dick*. Hot little pulses and almost a moaning *murmur*, almost—

Jason pulls back with one last lick—"What were you trying to say?"

"Ah. Sorry—"

"No."

Tim swallows. "That I wanted you, wanted to have you, touch you. I couldn't. I—please? I want to make you come—"

"You will," Jason says, and crawls forward a little more, just far enough that he can shove his dick against Tim's own, paint that hard little abdomen with pre-come and cover Tim with shadows, the way he always should be. "I... what was I saying, before? Oh, yeah. Love hurts. And sometimes it hurts the *one* you love, sometimes it twists him up inside so bad that he can't see straight, can't think of anything but how to get more *and* how to get away—"

"You. You left him."

"Oh, yeah. Great idea, *terrible* execution," and Jason *grinds* against Tim's dick—

"*Ohn*—"

"He came right after me, though. Told me he'd never let me go, that he needed me, loved me... and it was all things I knew. Things I could *taste*. And then I got myself killed."

"*Jason*—oh—"

"I was thinking about him when the lights went out, wondering what he'd do—"

"I—*please*, you—I can't—I can't *concentrate*—"

Jason laughs and moves back to kiss Tim again. He's got a little of his control back—*somehow*, heh—and he can do it slow, do it nice and slow and hard until Tim's arms are around his neck and Tim's legs are around his waist, clinging *tight*. He can't get anything much for his dick this way—not without shoving *in*—but he can wait, make the kiss just a *little* unforgettable.

The way Bruce had done.

*Every* time.

And Tim is whimpering into his mouth, almost *sobbing* with it as he works his dick against Jason's abdomen and the *armor*—fuck it. He peels Tim off—

"No—oh—*please*, Jason—"

"*Wait* for it, kid," and it only takes a minute to take off the jacket, the shirt, and the armor—

"Oh, you're so *beautiful*—"

"And *you* sound like Bruce—if he was ever a skinny little kid, which... yeah, I suppose he was, once upon a time," and Jason takes another kiss, rolls them over until Tim's on top of him, sprawled over him, and now he can *feel* every one of the kid's desperate little thrusts, have them for *himself*—

And it's just about possible that he'd knock the kid's parents into *matching* comas if they came in right now, and fuck *everything* else but the chance to have *this*.

He's stroking Tim all over now, touching and squeezing, pinching his nipples and spreading his ass cheeks—

Tim pulls back from the kiss and pants, tucks his head in against Jason's neck and *pushes* his ass into Jason's hands—

"*Please*—"

"Please is *right*. You don't even have the right kind of *slick* here—"

"Under the mattress. Right side. Um." Tim pulls back and searches Jason's face, eyes wide and *determined*. "That—I remembered the brand."

"And you went and *bought* yourself some?"

"It took—they wouldn't sell it to me in the first two drug stores I tried—which I found very disappointing, considering the fact that it would just encourage teenagers to use something like lotion or Vaseline—"

Jason fucking *chokes* on a laugh—"Okay, okay. Yeah, I'll finger you a little—"

"Oh, *Jason*, I want—please, I want you to. Fuck me."

"Not tonight and not *here*—" But. Jason licks his lips. "Next time your parents are gone, kid, maybe. You're gonna scream for me."

And his eyes get even *wider*—but he nods. "We'll—you'll do this. Again?"

Damn. Just—he's not going to hug the kid. He's not fucking *Dick*, and even Dick would have to have a problem doing that when he was rock fucking hard *and* so was whoever he was doing—

All right, no, Dick *wouldn't* have a problem—

And focusing lets him know with all of himself that he's stroking Tim again. Just—petting him, and getting a little lost in the raised welts on his back, the marks *he'd* left behind—"Yeah. We'll do this again," he says, and he thinks his voice is too low, too serious—

"Thank. Thank you, Jason. I—"

He covers Tim's mouth, presses against the swelling—he knows what Tim was about to say—

And Tim knows he knows it, because he closes his eyes and the flush on his face gets deeper and darker.

"Yeah. It's okay. It's—" If he's going to finger Tim, then he *needs* all the control he can get. "Scoot back and wrap a hand around me."

Tim nods and does it—and licks his lips. And very, very slowly and carefully pushes his free hand between Jason's legs until he can get a grip on Jason's sac. Which—

"If you're jerking me off, I want your other hand on my sac. If you're *sucking* me off, I almost *certainly* want your hand on my sac."

Tim *bites* his lip. "Ah—noted. I know I wasn't doing it correctly, but—"

"But *you* were having fun, because you're just wired that way—or because I was making it that good for you—"

"The latter. I think. Um—"

"I don't need the compliments when I can *see* you losing it for me. When I can feel you," Jason says, and drags his fingertips between his pecs and down to his navel where he can scratch at the hair there, a little—

"Let me. I mean—please let me?"

"No, go with the first one," and Jason grins a little while he pumps into Tim's hard little fist.

Wide eyes—narrow eyes. "Let me suck you again, Jason. Let me—fuck my face on your. Dick."

That... Jason shakes his head and laughs a little more. "So the dirty talk is gonna take a little practice, too. Were you seriously about to refer to it as my penis?"

"It's *accurate*—"

"It's *clinical*. Like a latex-covered hand on my balls instead of nice little sweaty one. Go on, say 'dick' again. You can pretend you're calling out oh, I don't know, someone's *name*—"

"*No*. No. I'm not. I'm not thinking about him, Jason. Only you—"

He cuts himself off for the knife Jason's retrieved—he doesn't even remember deciding to put it *down*—or maybe for the way he's weaving it back and forth. But Tim's only focused on Jason's eyes.

"I could... stop. Expressing feelings?"

Jason laughs *again*. "You could consider doing that, yeah. Or you could just get your mouth back on me."

"Oh—*yes*," and Tim doesn't even bother scooting back any further—just *uses* all that flexibility to bend in and *take*. *Almost* down to his fist.

Jason sighs on a moan. "Nothing—nothing wrong with your technique, by the way. You've got the eagerness, the *passion* for a—fucking job well *done*—fuck, *suck* me—"

Hollow cheeks and just a *little* bit of up and down, like maybe he's not sure Jason wants it—

"Want *you*, kid and—mm. Everything you can give me," Jason says, bucking up for the depth, the heat and *sweet* fucking suction, and the way that tongue is moving on him—

Yeah, Tim's still talking to him. Still *communicating*, and maybe it's more of those messy, messy feelings. All of those things that *help* make it wrong to do this with a kid, no matter how good he is, no matter how *hungry*—

And Jason gives in to it, lets himself feel both a little liquid and *centered* on his own dick—

And lets the knife slice a shallow little line that follows the tops of Tim's shoulder blades.

Moaning *whimper*, and another for the second line about a half-inch lower down, for the scars that *may* form for this, but—

It's a tough call. He just doesn't *know* what Tim's skin is like, yet. Still, there are just a few drops of blood welling up, gleaming black in the light from the street—"So good. So..." Jason lets the knife hit the bed again and pushes both hands into Tim's hair. "You should tell me—some other time—how you like this. I'll probably do it whether or *not* you like it, but... nnh. You should still tell me."

And Tim's nodding for him, *drooling* for him, spit dripping on Jason's mound—

"Hum. Just—"

Just *that*, and the vibration makes him tilt his head back, makes him want a kiss, a bite, a *touch* that doesn't come, that *can't* come because Tim's mouth is *busy*. But he can pet his own throat if he wants—

No, he wants to keep his hands in Tim's hair, so fine and soft, so—"Yeah—just. Do it *rhythmically*, like your sucks—*fuck*, yes—"

A hum for *every* suck, until it feels like he's blanking out every few seconds, losing just—

Fucking everything for this, this *feeling*, like maybe he'd just needed a few minutes of sanity—or honesty, and it's *possible* that it's both of those things, but not fucking likely—to be able to enjoy this without needing to fuck—

Except that *thinking* about it—

He's working Tim's head for him again, and it's too *fast*, but Tim doesn't stop sucking, humming, *or* squeezing, and every hum sounds like the words Jason's not letting him say, every squeeze feels like digging deeper—

Dirt under his nails and dirt in his mouth, worms—

*No*—

*Just* this, and the way it's just more proof that he's alive, that he can still change things, still make a fucking *difference*—even if it's only to a boy who'd never, ever needed him in order to become a hero but has him *anyway*—

The right way, they can do this the *right* way—

Tim's losing his rhythm, losing—whimpering around him and squeezing harder with both hands, stroking with the one on Jason's dick—

Jason groans and tries to fucking *impose* a rhythm on Tim, on *himself*—

Except that his body is telling him that it's too much to ask right now, too much—

"Fuck, *Tim*—" And that was too close to being too *loud*, and Tim's whimpering constantly now, somehow sucking harder—

Blank—

*Fuck*, too good, too much of what he *wants*, and the best he can say for himself—

He's not making his thrusts too deep, he's not and he *won't*, and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth—

Fucking *Bruce*—

And the shadows are deeper, the world is stranger, scarier—

*Mouth*, and his mind's not doing any better than—

Blank—

And he's coming when it all comes back, when he realizes that fucking fantastic feeling is Tim coughing, Tim *trying*—

He's curled up enough to *watch* his come spilling out of Tim's mouth as he spurts again—

*Again*, and it feels like everything's going, every dream and plan and hope—

And he has just enough of himself left to *yank* Tim off before he slumps back against the bed and pants around his own seriously cracked laughter. Oh, yeah, he'd *told* the kid it would be fucked up, but he'd forgotten to specify for *whom*.

Jason forces his fingers to untangle themselves from Tim's hair, and when he gets his hands to his face there are two thin little tufts, one for each hand. It just makes him laugh more, because... he's not done.

Not *yet*. "Come up here."

"Yes, I—" Tim coughs again and crawls close, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand—

God, he couldn't look more obvious without a few lipstick smears and a bowlegged walk. "On me. Wait—get your slick."

Tim nods instead of trying to talk again, and his breathing is a mess, but he's *not* panting. Quite. And no, Jason's not gonna laugh again.

Tim pulls the bottle from its surprisingly half-assed hiding place—no, every teenaged boy needs a little slick of *some* kind. Perhaps the kid's fucking maid just thinks he has better taste than others. Jason smiles and watches Tim move, graceful and just a *little* unsure as he straddles Jason's waist—and offers the bottle.

Which just makes a lively and interesting part of Jason's mind present the image of Tim fingering himself *for* Jason—hm. He takes the bottle and notes that it's been used... some. It's possible he'd just poured out too much the first couple of times, but—"How often do you use this to fuck yourself?"

"Ah. Every night. It's. I find it motivating. In terms of my stretches."

*Motivating*, yet, and that lively part is making some serious noise right now, but—"Ever think about putting on a little show for—me?"

Tim's eyes narrow for that hesitation, but it's easy enough to fix that—

And Tim moans impressively for the feel of Jason's thumb on the head of his dick—

("You were a beautiful boy, little one, but now you're a man. Tell me—what will you do? How will you choose?")

Jason shivers a little—"Answer me."

"It's—not um. Quite?"

"Quite?"

"I think about you... telling me to do it. Telling me to do it harder, or faster. Telling me to take—more," and Tim swallows, pushing a little against Jason's thumb—and gasping when Jason takes it away.

"You get off on that, but do you *want*—"

"Not as much as I want your fingers. Your dick," Tim says, biting his lip on something that would almost certainly be an apology, and—

"That was good. You almost didn't hesitate, at all, and I—appreciate that," and Jason smiles, bouncing Tim on him a little—

And watching Tim watch *him* as he shifts perfectly to keep his balance.

"I think I want to hear you laugh, kid."

Eyebrow raise—and a lot of blinks.

Yeah. "You don't do that too often—not and actually mean it. It doesn't seem to be something you grow into, either... but then, we never actually saw each other in... let's say *congenial* circumstances."

"I'd... picked up that the two of you weren't... close—"

Jason laughs *again*—"Yeah, really not so much."

"I just... what did I do? I don't... you've always been..." Tim looks down. "I don't understand what would make me—or the person I become—be anything but. I've always wanted to *know* you, Jason."

"If not get fucked by me?"

"That—that, *too*. I—my. The pictures, I could see you, and you were so strong, so much bigger—I watched you fight and I watched you *fly*—"

"Look at me," Jason says, and sits up on his elbows, closing his fist around the bottle to start it getting a little warmer—

And Tim looks desperate, confused... and hungry for answers Jason doesn't know how to give. Just—how does he explain it to the kid? How does he explain it to *himself*?

He'd gone for over a year without asking himself all that many questions about it, letting the hate sit there and build and shift and push itself right through him. He'd scarred the kid and broken his fucking arm and beaten him unconscious. All because—

Because.

"There was never supposed to be anyone else. Bruce—heh. He promised me that he wouldn't ever kick me out of his life the way he'd kicked out Dick—"

"He—what?"

Oh, yeah. *That*. Jason shakes his head. "Dick didn't retire, kid, and he sure as fuck didn't *quit*. The way Bruce told it to me—with a whole *lot* of shame—when I asked was that after Dick quit school, he started spending more and more time with the Titans in New York—and all over the fucking galaxy—than he was spending with Bruce in Gotham. *That* fucked Bruce up big time, and they started fighting a lot. He was *afraid* that Dick would leave him for good, so, like the bright spark he sometimes *really* is, he fired Dick, instead. Throw in a little Superman acting like the big, freaky, *nosy* alien that he is, and... instant Nightwing." He's just a man, Jason doesn't say again—

And knows he doesn't have to—if the horrified look in Tim's eyes and the fact that his dick is sinking a little is anything to go by.

"Near as I can tell, it must've gone down pretty much exactly the same way here—"

"Or Nightwing—Dick would be here. With Bruce."

Jason nods. "Anyway... he told me he wouldn't replace me. That I was his partner now and forever, that he loved me and would do anything *for* me. And then I died, and he put me in the ground, and when I got jumpstarted—by some seriously universe-bending shit featuring a young Clark from another universe—hunh. Yeah, Superman? Clark Kent. Investigative reporter and kind of a creep."

That gets that frown line in Tim's forehead a little deeper. "I—what? I mean... he's Bruce's friend—"

"Bruce's *best* friend, despite or maybe because of the fact that he's been fucking Dick since he was a little older than you are—and made a pretty serious attempt to get in my pants even though he knew perfectly well that I was with Bruce. I—Tim. The Justice League? Is full of fuckups. They aren't all kidfuckers, but they all have *serious problems*. That's just the way it works when you're *also* the kind of person who puts on colorful tights and goes around beating the shit out of strangers."

"*You*—"

"*I*? Am fucked in the head. I used to try to deny it, try to tell myself that I was better than at least *some* of them—but I'm not. If I didn't know that *before* I fucked your pretty little mouth, I know it now. And *you* need to know it. None of these people—none of *us* are worthy of your awe, and every last one of us needs to *earn* your respect. Remember that, and you'll be in good shape."

And Tim's eyes are searching... not him. Maybe the world that only exists behind his own eyes.

Jason leaves him to it, and tries to think about how he wants to finish that story Tim had asked him for—and had let him interrupt twice. It shouldn't be that hard to say, but it is, and he knows exactly why. It's all about that great big streak of angry immaturity that runs through him, that's *been* him for—

Not as long as he can remember. Not that. He was a *happy* kid for a good long while, even after his father started spending more time in jail—and doing the things that would *put* him in jail—than he'd spent with him and his. His mother, and he knows *that* now even though not knowing it had helped put his ass in a box. He doesn't know if it *should* be that way, but he knows that it is.

Just like how he'll *never* know what had made his biological mother into the woman who'd died right next to him. In his world, Bruce had had her buried in a different cemetery. A nice one, with perpetual care for her grave...

He'd never asked Bruce if he'd figured out the role she played in his death, and he doesn't think he ever will. That's over and done—and he's still not dealing with what he'd done with the Tim in his world, and with all the other vigilantes he'd fucked with and fucked over. But especially Tim Drake.

"Did you... did you kill the Joker in your world?"

Interesting on a few too many levels that *that's* the first question that Tim wants to ask, but... all right. "No. I beat him with a crowbar, just like he'd done to me, and left him to live or die as he would." Because I couldn't do it. Because—"I couldn't do it. I'd never killed anyone, and I wasn't ready to start. Later, when he was healthy *enough*, I set up a little situation where Bruce could either kill the Joker himself or let... something bad happen. Bruce, *being* Bruce, found a way around it. Last I checked, the asshole was back in Arkham."

A nod and a thoughtful look. "Would you—are you going to kill him here? Or... try to get Bruce to kill him?"

Jason sighs and strokes Tim's thigh. "First chance I get. Nice and quiet, and then I'll make sure his body is someplace public. You know why, don't you?"

Tim frowns. "I—I know it's not just because he killed you. I know that he's killed dozens of people, that he keeps escaping—I. I know that he can't actually be rehabilitated, and I know—I want him to be dead, Jason, but I don't know if I could do it."

Jason taps Tim's thigh. "No one's asking you to."

"But if it's something I can't do, then I shouldn't want anyone else *to* do it. If it's wrong, it's *wrong*."

If. Did you catch that, Tim? Oh, I really think you did—

"Oh. Oh. I've... changed."

Jason tries to make his smile a gentle one. "It looks good on you—"

"Is that why you hated me, Jason? Because in that other world I *didn't* change?"

"I never even tried with him, kid. Nothing I—he never did a thing to me, and tried real damned hard to get me to listen to *reason*, but I wasn't ready for it, and the fact that he *existed*, that he *was* Robin when I should've been, could've been, that he was seeing Bruce every night while I was fucking around with the League of Assassins, that he made me *think* about the time I should've been in Gotham... he was just a symbol."

"And I'm... not."

"No. *You*... are something else. Someone else. It just took me a little too fucking long to see it," Jason says, and strokes up Tim's thigh until he can reach between and cup his sac, roll it a little on his palm.

"Oh..."

"Any other questions? Or should I just get ready to fuck you a little?"

"I want—there's nothing I don't want to know. And I think I'm angry at my—dick for getting in the *way* of that—"

"Welcome to adolescence, kid. But there's nothing really special about tonight," and he gives Tim's sac a *hard* squeeze—

"Oh *fuck*—"

"Well, listen to *you*. Mm. I was saying—you'll get other chances before it's time for me to leave you—"

"Don't—God, please, Jason, *don't*—"

"Easy. Just think about this. How it feels. How much you *want* it—"

"Yes—yes, Jason, I do, I want *you*—"

"You've got me. And I've got *you*," and Jason gives him another squeeze, and another, over and over until Tim's dick starts rising for him again, until the flush starts spilling down Tim's chest and he's panting—

"Please, in me, I don't want to come until you're in me—"

"Done." But he doesn't let go right away. Just—this *feeling* of having another guy's sac in his hand—

No, it's not Bruce in his head right now. It's Tim, or the mass of want and need and fucked up *duty* the name Tim *means* now. Responsibility and power, danger and pain—all his.

He lets go. "Down on me a little. You know I can take your weight."

"Yes. I—or should I be on my hands and knees? Or—bent up?"

"Do you want to be? Because *I* want you right here," he says, and reaches around to cup Tim's ass, squeeze it and think about carving a little something *there*—no, he'd feel too much like he was compensating for something.

"Here is good. Here—I can feel you. And see you. I just—"

"Wanted to make things easier for me, I know." Jason gives Tim's ass a hard *slap*—

"*Ah*—I. That, too?"

Jason snickers. "Yeah, maybe. Another time." He slicks his fingers—"Reach back and spread yourself for me."

Tim nods and does it, staring down at him with eyes that are kind of *burning*.

No more waiting. He pushes in with one finger, one smooth slide that makes Tim pant and squeeze his eyes shut—and clench. "Tell me you want it."

"I *want* it—"

"Tell me to *fuck* you, nice and hard—"

"I—fuck me hard, Jason, fuck me—oh *God*—"

"Shh. But not silent. Not—" Jason sighs and gives it to him hard, feeling the tightness and knowing that one day it won't be enough to stop him, that he'll *have* to—

"Yes, Jason, *yes*, I—sorry, don't stop, oh God, you're *in* me—"

"Uh, huh. Just what you wanted. You're *making* me think about *doing* you," he says, and goes a little harder—

"*Please*—"

"When I *want* you to bleed, I'll cut you. So you're just gonna have to *add* this to your—heh. *Regimen*. Find a sex shop that'll sell you a toy—it'll make it easier on you."

"Yes, all right, I will—oh—"

"And then *tell* me what store it was so I can pay a little visit to the *owners*. Shut your mouth tight, now—"

Tim does it and nods—

Jason crooks his finger up and makes it *shudder* a little inside the kid—

And the shout stays muffled just the way it should, and—fuck. Tim's eyes are rolling back in his head and his dick twitches once, twice—this *won't* take long.

"I'm giving you another. I'm telling you so you'll be prepared for it and be able to keep yourself quiet *enough*—no, open your mouth again."

"Yes. Oh, God. Oh, *fuck*—"

"You're gonna look *so* good riding my dick, kid—"

"Jason—Jason, I—please, more, before I—*hnn*—"

"Oh, yeah. *Look* at you. Holding yourself spread for what I'm giving you, flushed all the way down to your abs..." Jason takes a deep breath and *spreads* his fingers inside the kid—

"Just want—just want to be *good*—"

"You *are*, and don't—don't think about anything else. Just about how good you are, what a *hot* little boy you are, all lean and needy for this, all—mm. I can *smell* how much you want this, feel your balls tightening up against my abdomen..."

"Love—*sorry*," and Tim shakes himself like a dog, bites his lip—

"*Open*."

"*Jason*—"

"Yeah. Right about now? You're all mine. That's *gonna* change—it's just the way this has to work—but I'm satisfied—"

"I'm *not*—"

Jason laughs and gives Tim another crook—

"*Fuck*—oh, fuck, oh—you're making me—I want to—"

"*What* do you want?"

"S-suck you, ride you, bend over the—the pommel horse—"

"*There's* an idea. Creative little fucker, aren't you?"

And the look on Tim's face is somewhere between anguished and *pissed*, and he knows what that look *feels* like, knows what it means and how it *works*.

"Don't you worry, kid. I've got you. I've got *this*," he says, sitting up and wrapping his free arm around Tim's waist, presses his body *tight* against Jason's own—

"Oh—God, I'll *come* on you—"

"Yeah, you will. Go on, lick my shoulder a little. Bite it, kiss it—do what you *want*—"

And the bite starts out gentle, *hesitant*—but then it's *hard* enough that Jason thinks he can feel every one of Tim's sharp little teeth, thinks he can *sense* his own skin's breaking point—

"*Good* boy. Go ahead, *leave* a mark—"

And Tim shudders and cries *out* against Jason's shoulder, licking almost frantically, sucking and biting again, again—

He's still holding himself *open* for Jason, and that kind of perfection, that kind of *dedication*—he's not getting hard again, but it's not that far under the surface, either. "Let go of yourself," he says and licks Tim's ear, bites the lobe—

And those hands are on him, one clutching the arm he has around Tim, the other stroking and squeezing and *pressing* on Jason's working arm, restless and sweet, so good—

Jason breathes on Tim's ear. "Don't try to hold off, Tim. You'll have this again—mm—" That *bite*, and yeah, that time the skin gave a little. "Do you like it? The taste of my blood?"

Tim bucks *hard*—

And comes on him, biting *harder* as he cries out, voice spiraling higher and higher until it's almost frightening, until he wishes he could hate himself for this, until he wants to hide himself in Tim's body and only come out when there's someone to *hurt*.

Jason kisses Tim's ear and squeezes him just a little tighter. Not hard enough that he can't breathe, just—

Just a little.

After a while, there's only the pain in his shoulder and Tim's intermittent shudders—

The pain *flares* and Tim pulls back, turning to face him with bloody lips and wide, lost eyes.

Jason smiles. "It's all right. Lick your lips for me?"

*Heat* again, but just a flash of it while Tim does it, shuddering again. "Jason. That was—I wanted it to *last*—"

"You're too young for that to work. But..."

"You'll do it again," Tim says, and when he smiles there's still a little pink on his teeth—

So Jason licks it off.


	14. Chapter 14

Watching Tim learn the staff is a lot like watching a duckling learn to swim. It seems to just *happen*, and while Jason knows that a part of that is the fact that it's hard to make the days last as long as they should when you're getting your dick sucked on pretty much every one of them, it's still amazing—and maybe a little humbling.

He'd like to know how Bruce *knew* that the staff would be Tim's weapon, or - had Tim chosen it, himself? He would've learned *early* that he needed the extra *reach* for his blows... hm.

Right now, Tim is spinning and moving and *striking* exactly like he's in the middle of a bunch of people in need of pain as opposed to being alone on the mats. That one's a few small bones in a foot going crunch, that one's a seriously sore hand, that one's a paralyzed shoulder—and *that* one's a broken jaw.

"Very, *very* nice," Jason says, meaning it—

And now Tim's smiling while he works through the forms *faster*. He can't use his perfectly deadly little hands right now, but his feet and shins are right there for him—

Oh, someone just got a shot to the crotch. Heh. "Interesting tidbit: We're not the only ones who get hard for this kind of thing."

"Ah—the criminals? Sometimes?"

"Oh, yeah."

"That's... disturbing, actually," Tim says, cracking some ghost in the head with the staff before flipping back and sweeping, kicking—

His breathing is so, so perfect. Jason moves closer... no, not yet. "You're on a rooftop, and the ledge is oh, say—two inches behind your heels—"

"Noted," and Tim starts using it, slowing down to... oh, he really is luring his imaginary opponents *in*. Heh.

"You should *almost* never drop people off rooftops, kid. But that's not really a criticism so much as an observation..."

And Tim's smile turns sly. *Wet*.

Yeah, he was saying something. "Anyway. The ones who get hard for it? It's not about how badly you can hurt them—"

"They'd just—like it. Yes, I hear you. Take them out faster, even if it means less pain." And that sweep, spin, and *jab* is someone—a fairly tall someone—taking a header off the roof.

"Tim, Tim, Tim," Jason says, shaking his head sadly.

"There was a *very* full Dumpster down there," Tim says, and rolls with the staff—a little sloppy. "Damn. May I—"

"Yeah, practice those rolls. Remember the cape."

"Yes. I feel. Um."

Hesitation—which means he was *thinking* about suggesting something about the way Jason's training him. There's a part of him which wants to tug the leash *hard*—possibly yank on it a little—but... it's a smaller part every day. "Go on."

"I'm not sure... I think I'll need a lot of time to learn the cape, Jason," and Tim starts rolling, trying out different holds with the staff.

Jason thinks about it some, letting the back of his mind purr a little over the lack of *bad* tension in Tim, over the way he's just letting himself—flow.

Every day, Tim leaps up on the beam and shadow-fights with the staff, moving and turning, dipping and striking and swaying not at all. His balance, his flexibility...

Better every day. But—yeah. "You're right. My cape was a lot shorter and lighter than yours is going to be."

"Oh. I—a weapon in its own right?"

"Not as good a one as you *will* get from Bruce—"

"I think. Should we really count on Bruce that way?" And Tim nods to himself after his fourth perfect roll in row *while* coming up and starting to fight again, spinning the staff in front of him to avoid projectiles before moving *in*—

It was a good question, *but*. "You know too much for him not to take you on. And that's *both* in terms of your training and your *secrets*."

"I—" Frown. "Jason... is it wrong that it still bothers me... I really don't want him to *resent* me—"

"Tough. He *can* control his more immature urges, kid, but sometimes he just doesn't *want* to. For him... be honest, be determined, be *sure*, with all of yourself. Never back down and never show fear."

"He's—only a man," Tim says, and starts dodging blows. Mostly punches from a long-armed and mean-spirited individual, by the look of it.

"And you're a smart, tough, and *serious*—Robin."

This smile is almost ghostly, but only in terms of its diffuse focus. A dream outside of himself still, then. But not for long.

Jason rolls his shoulders and stalks in, taking Tim's widened eyes and *predatory* smile for his own—because they absolutely are. And punishing Tim for making him feel this way—

Is it punishment when Tim smiles for every touch? Cries *out* for every toss like maybe he's still working on learning *how* to laugh?

And he hasn't had to convince Tim to actually *try* to hurt him since the first time—and maybe, just maybe, he hasn't done a damned thing with that pipe but tuck it away in one of the old lockers he hasn't bothered to have carted out—

The strikes are constant and just as hard as the blocks, just as *precise* as the dodges, because Tim knows, now, that running too hard from a hit can just get you in other kinds of trouble—

Spin-kick *drop*, too fast for Jason to catch his ankle after *he* dodges.

Leap and a downward strike—no, *two*, one after the other, and Jason catches the staff—

And has to let go when Tim uses his flexibility to kick for his hand.

Steel-toed boots winning over tabi again, but only marginally, only—

"Ah—knife, Jason?"

Jason smiles. "Because you wanna practice or because you wanna get off?"

Tim manages to give the *appearance* of ducking his head fucking *demurely* even as he dances away from a flurry— "Well. I was trying not to... ah. Limit myself."

The laughter, Jason thinks, is in Tim's eyes, so much less hooded than they used to be, or—no. He'd never really put any kind of effort into *hiding* from Jason so much as he'd tried to be... unobtrusive. Subtle. Jason pulls his knife and starts weaving it a little...

Yeah, the kid probably thinks the light in his eyes is the equivalent of dancing around and shouting. It *isn't*... and Jason isn't sure how to teach that lesson.

And he's not sure if he wants to, either. Just—

There's no fear here, right now. None at *all*—and if it was some other kind of kid, Jason would call it trust that Jason wouldn't hurt him, but it's *Tim*, and so the lack of fear means that he knows that even if he *does* get cut he'll still be able to keep going, keep *coming* for Jason with that staff and every vicious little thing he can do with it, like—

*There*, a strike aimed for Jason's *hip*. The kind of injury that can take a guy out of the game in the *future*, because hips almost never heal perfectly—

A spin to keep the knife from getting anywhere near him—

A turn, and Tim is coming for him, grinning *hard* and maybe just a little manic—because he's doing his *damnedest* to force Jason toward the 'ledge.'

"Little *bastard*," Jason says—

Tim licks his *lips*—

And Jason takes a strike to the shin.

First touch. First *touch*, and, if anything, it's affecting him *more* than it's affecting Tim, because even though Tim makes a *sound*—low and *sweet*—he never stops, never—

Jason goes in fast and hard because he has to, because he *needs* this, needs to see that line on Tim's forehead get just a little deeper as Tim pours it on, defending himself about seventy percent of the time, now, but never ceasing his own attack, never so much as *hesitating* to take every tiny opportunity it even *looks* like Jason is giving him—

Harder, then, and Tim growls for him when Jason forces his defensive percentage up to eighty—

"What do you do now?"

"Shuriken. Smoke bomb. Start hoping sincerely for back-up."

Mm. "You're out of shuriken, the guy has a rebreather, and back-up is twenty, twenty-five minutes out."

"High ground—"

"None—"

Block and *sweep*, and Tim *almost* gets his shin again—

"Good boy. No high ground."

"I—" And Tim spins the staff and moves, keeping up the speed and forcing Jason back a little—

A little more—

And seeing it *coming* is nothing—fucking *nothing*—against watching Tim do a backflip *while* pulling the knife at his back—

Turn in the air—

*Throw*, hard and accurate enough that Jason can snatch it out of the air without so much as adjusting for a wobble. *Fuck*, yes—

"I. Hm. I think this is where I run for my life?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Jason says, and lets himself snicker as he tosses the knife back. "On the plus side? There just *aren't* all that many non-metas who'll be able to do this to you on their *own*."

Tim sheaths the knife and nods thoughtfully. "What about guns?"

Yeah. "You already know how to shoot... but you'll need the Cave for crossfire training situations."

"Bruce," Tim says, and sounds worried.

"Hey—"

"I—I know. I just want to be as prepared as I can possibly be before I meet him. He—I know you've been paying attention to the news reports—"

"*And* the scanner when I'm not out there, myself. We just don't have that much time left, kid," and Jason moves up close, cupping Tim's face and making him look up into Jason's eyes. "You're coming out with me tonight."

And Tim still looks worried, but the light is creeping back into his eyes. The *good* light, the one that's hard and sharp, wet as a smile—

And the healing bite-mark on Jason's shoulder itches just a little. Just enough to make him *aware* of the rest of his body. Of his *dick*, to be precise, and the fact that he has to send Tim home... soon. He strokes Tim's cheekbone and watches Tim's eyes slip half-closed—

And snap open again. "Oh! There's—a party. This weekend. I mean, one of the society parties. My parents were talking about it... they mentioned that Bruce might be there."

That—Jason grunts. "Are they planning on bringing you along?"

"They asked—ah. They don't usually ask, but this time... I told them I'd think about it," Tim says, and the question in his eyes is honest and clear, just as if Jason had *erased* the part of him which would've moved heaven and earth to be there.

Jason manages to keep the shiver internal. "Go, watch—and I'll be waiting at your place for the report."

"Yes, Jason. Um..." And Tim rests his hand on the hip he'd done his damnedest to break, blushing but keeping his eyes *sharp* on Jason's own.

Jason smiles. "The last time I sucked you off you didn't make it a minute, kid. Maybe I'm not so interested."

Wide eyes—too wide.

"Nuh-uh. Learn to *play*."

Eyebrow, fast-tracking *search*... and the smile on Tim's face isn't the most honest one in the world, but it looks a hell of a lot like the one he'd used when he was breaking up his shadow-gang.

"Yeah. That one," Jason says, and moves his hand to Tim's mouth, tracing the curve of the smile until it almost seems to settle *in* on Tim's face.

"Perhaps I should pretend you're about to stab me the next time—your mouth is on my dick."

Heh. "Sure you wouldn't like that too much?"

And—there. That little *shift* of the kid's shoulders as he tries to make the gi pull and drag against all of his little scratches.

Jason's little scratches. He pushes his thumb into Tim's mouth— "Suck." And keep your eyes open, he doesn't say, because he's still working on this particular Tim theory. Eyes closed *could* just be for concentration and enjoyment, but there's still a part of Tim that's hidden from him. He's not sure what it is or how it *looks*, but there's *something*.

For all he knows, it's hidden from Tim, himself, but—

But.

It's *amazing* how ready, willing, and able the human mind is to come up with excuses for bad behavior, because, yes, Jason is seriously standing here making a kid suck his thumb for him in preparation for *other* things while telling himself it's all about getting to *know* the kid in question.

His dick wants him to know that it doesn't care *what* he has to say to himself in order for it to get what it wants—so long as it *does* get what it wants. "Tim," he says, letting it be as heavy and low as it wants to be—

Tim *bites* Jason's thumb—and keeps sucking.

"Good, good boy," and he starts to fuck Tim's mouth slow and hard, sharp teeth scraping his skin and making him think of... oh, all *sorts* of things. And the smile on his face is probably showing off every last one of them, judging by the way Tim's eyes *flare* for him. "Yeah. Strip off."

A nod and Tim starts doing it—and doesn't let go of Jason's thumb. It's a little more awkward this way, but it's very, very nice to see.

Tim's body is bruised up from all of the sparring they've been doing recently, but it's still easy—still *obvious*—to see all the places where Jason's *sucked* bruises onto him.

Dark around those little nipples, yellowing at Tim's hip—

Jason takes his thumb back and licks for the taste of Tim's saliva. "Stand up straight and turn for me."

Tim raises his arms above his head before he does it, just like maybe he could *feel* Jason wanting to see the healing scratches—three for each side—on Tim's triceps.

What *is* Bruce going to think the first time he sees Tim naked? When he *confirms* for himself that *Robin* is no virgin, blushes or no blushes...

A part of Jason only wants to *prepare* Tim for Bruce, wants there to be some set way for that to happen, more than just forcing Tim to become someone who *can* look into that cowl and know, all the way down, that it's only another man—and one with the kind of weakness a Robin is *born* to exploit. It's just that Bruce is *still* going to surprise him—and probably find ways to surprise Jason, too. He's an *extraordinary* man, and Tim isn't completely wrong to worry.

But...

But.

"What are you gonna do when Bruce wants to touch you, kid?"

"I—you said he wouldn't. Him *or* Dick."

Jason presses two fingers against Tim's skin and lets them drag as he turns. Pecs—just a little bigger—obliques, shoulder blades... "*I'm* just a man—though one who knows Bruce just a *little* better than most. And what I said was that they *don't* want you this way—yet. You're not even a blip on the radar. But once you are...?" Jason *cups* Tim's oblique and holds him still. "Things are gonna move fast."

"How so?"

"Bruce can't just kidnap *you* for a few days before sending that team of lawyers to make you his, so there's that going for you—"

Haiti. *Haiti*—

"But he'll have an eye on you. The day after you meet him, you might just find yourself snatched off the street on your way here, but... it's my *plan* to vet you for him. And that means his eye is going to be on *me*. Bugs, tracers..." Jason shakes his head and lets go of Tim to start stroking him again with just his fingertips.

Muscle and bone, bruises and scars...

"The way he is right now, the way he's *going* to be when he finds out that I've done an end-run around him—"

"But he didn't—he wasn't going to pick *me*. He doesn't *know* me—"

"But he will," Jason says, and hooks his thumb in Tim's navel a little—

"Oh—that feels. Strange—"

"Uh, huh. You can *make* yourself get used to it, a little, though. Maybe even make yourself *like* it," and Jason shoves his thumb that millimeter or two deeper—

Tim grunts for him, shifting on his feet—stilling.

"Good. And I was saying... he'll know you, and he'll think to himself 'I should've known. I should've seen him' and *most* of him is going to admire you for it even while he berates himself for missing it. The rest of him... well, how do you think *you'd* feel in his position?"

"Paranoid. Possibly terrified. But that's *me*—"

"That's *human*. Some people get off on being watched. Bruce? Really isn't one of them." Jason pulls his thumb back out, dragging it down until he can take the head of Tim's penis between his fingers and *pinch*—

"Jason—"

"Let's see how long you can take this touch."

"I—" Tim nods and bites his lip—shakes his head and pants. "All right."

Jason cups Tim's face with his other hand and tilts Tim's head back again. "That paranoia and terror you give him? *That's* where the resentment is gonna come from. And just a *little* bit of the hunger."

"Hunger. I don't. That's difficult to imagine, Jason."

Jason smiles again. "Of course it is—for *you*. So let me give you something easier: picture a little boy full of grief and rage and, yeah, terror. One day he sees something even darker, angrier, and scarier than the inside of his own head. He sees it, hears it, feels it—hell, tastes it and smells it, too. It knocks him right down. Shuts him *up*—all of the screaming in his head wiped away. With me?"

Tim licks his lips and nods, swallows—winces and *bucks* when Jason starts pinching rhythmically—

So many kinks, so *little* time. "This little boy—that big, scary thing is suddenly the best thing in the world, the most *wanted* thing, because the thing about having a head full of screaming is that it's a little on the *stressful* side—"

"I'm not Bruce. I'm not—I haven't suffered. And *you're* not—oh. You are. I." Tim shakes his head. "I still don't think that Bruce will want me. You're still—he still has clothes that smell like you, Jason. He hasn't forgotten what you taste like, or how it sounds when you laugh..." Tim looks at him, searching and almost seeming to *push* a plea out through his eyes. "And I don't want him, anymore."

*Heat*, just—all through him, because a part of him knows that's the right answer, the *only* answer he can take—but Tim isn't going to be *his* Robin, at all. Jason takes a breath and shakes his head. "You will again, Tim. And it will be bigger and a lot harder to take, because you'll know *exactly* what it's like. What *he's* like—but you can keep that stubborn look on your face a little longer, anyway."

"I—harder?"

Jason gives Tim a *good* pinch, and his dick twitches just before Tim cries out for him, shifting on his feet and bucking again, trying for more...

Yeah.

Jason lets go. "Go get up on my work table. Legs dangling over the side."

Tim pants and goes in a *stiff* jog, feet soundless on the floor. Jason follows at a walk, looking him over, planning—wanting.

Wanting *more* when Tim sets Jason's tools aside *neatly* before climbing up and spreading his long, lean legs.

The part of Jason which only wants to watch Bruce *want* again, wants to see it from the outside and *measure* it, is thinking *hard* about shaving Tim down and teaching him to walk in heels...

And hell, maybe he *should*. Prepare Tim for as much as he can, for the feeling—unlike *any* other—of a big, male hand pushing up your fucking *skirt* and taking what it wants—

Jason shakes it off and sits in the chair, letting it rock back and forth and looking Tim over just a *little* more. Tim's going to be in a bed the first time—only time?—he rims him, but it's not like he isn't prepared for other things. "Scoot a little closer to the edge for me."

Done—and Tim raises an eyebrow, thoughtfulness, hunger, and something a *lot* sharper warring in his eyes.

"Do tell," Jason says, and pulls the bottle of slick out of his gi.

"When you touch me... do you do it the way Bruce touched you?"

"Oh, I'm a *lot* nicer than he is, kid. I don't make you put up with soft and slow and oh *so* gentle."

Tim *coughs* a laugh, and it sounds exactly as pained and strangled as Jason had been imagining. Heh.

"Liked that, did you? Put your feet on my shoulders."

Tim does *that*, and now the war looks like it's between more laughter and a healthy dose of embarrassment. Which...

"A little shameful, isn't it?"

"Ah... the exposure. Yes. I'm... very aware of my own body."

"And you don't *like* that, because you know your body is never going to look like mine, or Bruce's, or even Dick's."

"I think you can understand the... frustration."

"And the pain, yeah. I can *see* you now, kid. See everything I want and some of the things I *don't*—"

"I could change them. If you told me."

"I just bet," Jason says, and slicks up his fingers before shoving in two—

"*Oh*—tell me, Jason, please tell me—"

"No. Because *then*? You wouldn't be the boy who gets me *hard*, anymore."

Tim bites his lip—stops and groans—

Stops and tenses up hard, *very* clearly trying to concentrate against the feel of Jason fucking him like this. Heh. Jason does it *harder*—

"*Fuck*—Jason—"

"Yes...? Got something to say to me?"

"*Fuck* me—I mean. I mean *that*, but also—*hnn*—I." And Tim pushes up on his hands and *rocks* against Jason's fingers, *taking* more for himself.

"Oh yeah, do *that*."

"Feels—oh, you always feel so *good*, Jason, I—I've been using the toy—"

"Oh, I can tell. And you're going to show me... one of these days," Jason says, crooking his fingers and just *rocking* them a little inside him, just—having this as Tim cries out and *keeps* crying out—

And gasps when Jason straightens his fingers again— "I was going to say—I was. You don't—you *don't* get hard for the parts of me—"

"Oh, but I really, really do," Jason says shoving in deep and just *holding* his fingers there. "When you're just the bestest little boy you could ever be? When you're careful and unsure and hating yourself a little? That's when I *really* want to do you. Chain you up, beat on you a little, make you *feel* me—"

"Oh—*oh*. I do feel you, I *always* feel you. When I'm in school, when I'm alone, when I'm not alone—"

"When you're sitting between your parents pretending that they really *do* love each other...?"

And Tim's eyes fly open *wide*, shocked and scared and knowing, all the way *knowing*, because—

"Yeah. Like that, Tim. See, you're *going* to change for me, but you're gonna do it *my* way. Whenever you start thinking about backsliding, about buttoning yourself up and fucking *burying* yourself under all that good little boy *bullshit*—I'll be there—"

"You *won't* be, Jason. You'll just—you're going to go to some other *universe*—*hn*—I. It doesn't matter how hard you fuck me if—"

"Oh, it matters," Jason says, shrugging off Tim's feet, standing up, and *pushing* Tim back down by his shoulder. "It's everything, kid. You're never gonna get rid of me. By the time I'm through with you? I'll be in everything you do and everything you *are*—"

"God—*fuck*. Jason, please, just don't stop, just don't *stop*—"

"Gonna beg me for it?"

"*Please*," Tim says, and starts trying to push himself up on his hands again—

Until Jason squeezes his shoulder hard enough to get a different sort of cry out of him. "Stay down. And *take* this."

"Yes, I—*yes*—" And Tim throws his head back, baring the clean, unbroken lines of his throat, the places Jason hasn't bitten or cut because he can't fucking *risk* it—

But he can grab Tim there and *squeeze*—

Tim *kicks*, shuddering all over and staring up into Jason's eyes, *glaring* up—

"Fuck yeah, kid. That's what I want from you. That's what I *need* from you. All your anger, all your hurt—and all the control that's letting you follow my *orders*."

And Tim glares *harder*—before mouthing 'I love you.'

That—Jason hears himself grunting and he can't keep himself from fucking Tim *harder*. Just— "Tricky little bitch, aren't you? Yeah, well, I like that, too. I fucking love it. Now come for me—because I'm not letting you breathe until you do."

That gets him a better shudder, a *deeper* one, somehow, because he can feel it in the hand he has around Tim's throat and in the fingers he has *inside* the kid. And—

Jesus, he's hot inside, with *just* enough give to make Jason think about another finger, his *dick*—

He could take the kid like this. Right *here*, with everything he'd just said and everything Tim *knows* now—about both of them. He could do it, and then send him home with come dripping down his thighs—

No. He wants more than that. Not *much* more, but—a little time. Time they really don't *have* for this, but that he has to take, anyway—

And Tim's eyes roll back in his head while he spasms, jerks—

"Fuck, *do* it, Tim—"

And when Tim opens his mouth it feels like there's an *absence* of sound, the auditory equivalent of *vacuum*, pulling him in and making him want—

"*Now*."

Tension, sweet and fucking trembling—and then Tim clenches *hard* around him and comes, spattering himself and Jason's gi and making Jason want to be *naked* for this, for the heat he's *not* feeling. He squeezes harder and *shakes* Tim a little—

And gets one more spurt for his trouble. Mm. Jason lets go and just watches Tim slump. His arms won't hold him right now, and—

God, he's never going to *be* looser than this. Jason can just push him down and lift those legs around his hips—

"You've got fifteen seconds to get my dick in your mouth, kid—"

And Tim *laughs*, hoarse and cracked and utterly real as he looks up at Jason with an eyebrow raised. "Why don't I just spread my legs a little wider. Jason."

Holy... hell. "Because that's *not* what I told you to. Ten seconds."

"Or else you make me listen to more of my... ah. Psychological foibles? Cut me? Spank me? I *could* roll over."

Jason—licks the edges of his teeth. "Kid—"

"Come *in* me, Jason. You already know they don't want me at home, that *no* one does—except for you. There's no such thing as being late when there's never any—any *fucking* curfew."

Time's up, and he's seriously just standing there staring. He asked for this. He really, seriously—

He fucking *demanded* this, and now he has it, and—there's only one more thing he needs to know, really.

Jason turns and walks away, promising his dick whatever the hell it wants if it'll just let him stay *steady* for this, just let him—

Spin away from the flying *tackle* that, in a different sort of world entirely, would've sent a bony shoulder *right* to his kidney—

And Tim rolls *right* back onto his feet—with one of *Jason's* knives in his hand. His stance couldn't be more perfect *without* putting a uniform on him. Just—

"Is that what you got for me, kid?"

"My *name* is *Tim*," and there's nothing wild about his attack, nothing uneven and *nothing* merciful.

A strike for his femoral artery, a strike for his liver—

And a slash that would've left Jason's guts all over the fucking *mats*, and he can't hold back the smile, can't breathe around the *pride* as Tim takes a jab to the abdomen and keeps coming, as he expertly tosses the knife to his other hand when Jason chops his shoulder, as he *fights* the pin, snarling nowhere but his eyes and promising *pain* with every flex of muscle.

He bites Jason's *tongue* when he kisses him—

He groans and *takes* it, bucking up with his hips even though Jason's gi has to be torture for his oversensitized dick. Jason fucks his mouth for a good, long while, knowing that he's bruising Tim's forearms with his hands, Tim's thighs with his *knees*—

He pulls back. "Mine."

"I already fucking *knew* that, Jason, and if you weren't still fucked in the head about dying, about Bruce and everything *else*—"

"Tell me you want it."

"I want your *dick*, Jason, and you want to give it to me, you *need* it and I can see it in your eyes, I can *taste* it—"

"And what are you gonna do when Bruce wants to touch you?"

"Whatever I *want*. Jason—"

"Yeah," Jason says, and stands—

Tim *growls* and starts to get up—

Jason puts his foot on Tim's chest. "Easy, freakboy. You're *gonna* get what you want," and Jason starts to strip.

And watches Tim think *seriously* about trying to throw Jason—or maybe just twisting his foot around the wrong way.

Jason gives him a *shove* with his foot and steps back. "Go get the lube."

Oh, that's a *mean* look in Tim's eyes—but it's also *calculating*. He grabs the knife and goes to do it—and when he comes back with it he heads straight for the pommel horse, setting the bottle down and sending Jason a *daring* look.

Heh. He steps out of his pants and walks over behind Tim, grabbing the back of his neck and squeezing hard—while Tim presses back *into* it. His—and even *more* his for the way he fights against Jason pushing him down until his cheek is on the horse. And then *stays* there. "Spread yourself for me."

Tim pants and does it, and Jason can't look. Wants to, has to—

So *fucking* small, and undoubtedly clenched up again with everything they've said and done since he was *inside* the kid—Tim, now and forever.

Maybe a bed just wouldn't cut it.

Jason dumps a healthy amount of lube on his fingers and paints Tim's crack with it, circles his hole—and pushes in with *three*.

"*Ah*—"

"Don't scream yet. This is just *prep*."

"Hn—I *know*. And I *want* to scream."

And Jason wants a *gag*—but it doesn't matter how good it would feel to put it on and how good it would *look* to have it there. He doesn't want to give up the noise. "Then I guess I just have to be a nice guy and *let* you," Jason says, and starts to thrust, forcing his fingers in and making Tim cry out for every push, every *shove*.

And—

"Does it make it easier? Make it hurt less?"

"Makes—makes it hurt more *coherently*—*Jason*—"

"Yeah, faster. I won't make you wait *too* long..."

"*Please*. I want—may I put my hands on the horse?"

"Mm, since you asked so nicely? No."

"Oh, *fuck* you," Tim says, *laughing* for him again—

Jason grins and leans in to bite the back of Tim's neck. "*That's* better. Yeah, go ahead and brace yourself."

Two quick pants and then Tim does it—and it's absolutely a demand to take him harder and faster *still*, forcing past all the resistance and then doing it again, over and over until Tim is whimpering steadily, gasping and begging—

"Now work your hips for me. Beg with your *body*." And he gets *just* that, Tim's slim little ass pumping back and forth on his hand in the *perfect* rhythm as Tim groans, scratches at the horse and shakes... Jason checks, and yeah, Tim's getting hard for him again. Just a little, but it's easy to fix that with some nice, hard strokes—

"*Ohn*—oh, please, *please*—"

"Beg me to fuck you, Tim—"

"*Please* fuck me, please, God, I'll do anything, I'll *be* anything—ow, fuck, so *hard*—"

"*Just* for you," Jason says, trying and *mostly* failing to spread his fingers. "One day I'm gonna *fist* you."

"*Jason*—"

"Maybe I'll even do it while someone's watching. Watching you give it *up*—"

"I only want you to see me—"

"Too fucking *bad*—Tim," and Jason licks Tim's neck, *twists* his fingers inside—

"Oh, God, it *hurts*—"

"It always does the first time. And the second, the third..." Jason bites his lip and tries to imagine not doing this, not *having* this. Tim's cries—

Tim's *sobs*—

They sound like—it *feels* like the universe is giving him one last chance not to do this, one last chance to take a good look at this kid, this *boy* who only wants to love him, only wants to be whoever *Jason* wants him to be—

"*Jason*—"

And yeah, he's hurting him, and the fuck will be even worse, brutal and rough, and all of this preparation might not save him from bleeding, at all. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and stills his hand. "Tim. Tim, listen to me—"

"*No*. Don't say no to me, don't try to convince me or—God, I don't *know*. You *want* me, Jason, I—I can feel it and it's driving me crazy. Just let me scream, just let me—I promise I'll make it *good*," and Tim works himself back on Jason's hand faster, every sharp breath coming with a sharper noise—

A *high* noise, and his dick knows what that means, knows that even through the pain—

That the pain is *making* Tim want this more, making him ready for this—God, the feel of his dick in Jason's hand—

He could *make* Tim come this way, and even he won't be able to go again before he *has* to go home—

"*Fuck* me, Jason, make me—*need* me—"

"I do," Jason says, and pulls out much too fast—

"*No*—"

"*Yes*," and shoving in with his dick feels like—

A part of him is only watching this from the outside, taking note of every detail, from the bottle of slick resting behind Tim's left hand, to the way *both* of Tim's hands are flexing and shaking, to the flush on Tim's back—

Look closer and there are those scratches—scars—thin white lines in all the pink forming a broken 't', and there's Jason's dick sliding in and in.

Jason can feel/see the look on his face, the way it must look like he's angry and hurt—

The way he *is* angry and hurt, because he's not strong enough for this, wasn't even strong enough to *wait* for Tim to be a little bigger, big enough that at least the *first* push wouldn't hurt like he knows it *is*—

And Jason watches his hands move on Tim, watches himself gripping slim hips, skinny hips, little *boy* hips—

And every scream seems to echo around the whole gym, seems to batter against him in one more kind of sensation—

Tim should be beating *him* with those fists instead of the horse, should be calling him a rapist because he *is*—

He is. And it feels *exactly* as good as he'd known it would—tight heat and only the slickness *he'd* left behind—

And Tim's clench shatters everything, breaks the wall between himself and the *rest* of this feeling—

"*Please*—"

So tight, so fucking *tight* and all around him, squeezing him and fucking *fighting* him—

*Literally* fighting him, because Tim is trying to pull against the grip Jason has on his hips. Trying to—

He doesn't want to know. "*Stop*," he says, using the street voice—

Tim stills all over, panting and *whimpering*—"Jason..."

"Yeah. Yeah. Can you take it?"

"*Yes*—"

"Can you *take* it—"

"Jason, it's—it's okay, I was just. I thought. Maybe slower."

The laugh has no *place* here, but it comes out, anyway, and watching the tension *flow* over Tim's body is still no preparation for— "Mother*fuck*, you feel good, kid. *Tim*."

The noise is so soft, so—fucking devastating.

"Keep talking, Tim. Stay *with* me."

"Yes, I—I'm sorry, I. Oh, God, Jason, you're really. Very big."

Jason laughs again—it sounds a lot like a fucking *sob*—

"Oh. Jason? Are you—is there something I should... do," and it doesn't come out as a question, at all, and then Tim is *moving*. Tiny. Fucking *tiny* little motions because that's all Jason's hands on his hips are *allowing*—

"Tim. Jesus—Jesus fucking *Christ*, Tim—"

"Ah. Ah—I. Faster? Should I?"

*Yes*—"God, I." Jason groans and leans in, meaning to lick the back of Tim's neck, taste the new sweat, pain sweat—he *bites*—

Tim cries out and *clenches* around him—

And cries out *louder*, because Jason's hips didn't wait for permission, for sanity, for—

There's no sanity *here*, just tight, sweet heat and the feeling of being buried again, only this time there's only flesh, only perfection—

"You feel so *fucking* good," Jason says, and at least he's not biting, anymore, at least he can say *that* while he's licking Tim, his throat and his face, his ear—

"I want to, I want to be good for you, Jason, want—"

"Want me to need you. *Need* me to need you—"

"*Yes*—I. The way I need you. Please, Jason, please do it, fuck me—"

"Tim," and it's not the street voice, at all. It's not even *close* to being anything he wants to admit to—but Tim's not talking, anymore, and that means—

Something. God, it's a fucking *fever* in him, or—

Never anything this tight, never anything this—his. Jason kisses the space just behind Tim's ear and tries to feel where the scratch was, tries to have that, too—

"Jason. I. The angle—shifts."

"Yeah. You... God, Tim," and it doesn't make anything better to bite Tim's earlobe, to think about getting the kid earrings so long as he can pierce him himself—

"It's. Do you like—"

"You feel. Better than anything else. *Better*. And part of it is the way you—hn. Fucking demanded this. The way you're *moving*. The way you need this, need me. Tim. It's going to get worse."

"Oh—okay—"

"I can't wait. I can't—I'm sorry," Jason says, pulling out just far enough to satisfy his hips, the hunger in him, the *need*—

And Tim relaxes himself all over, evening out his breathing and—it almost feels like being *released*, and it's nothing he wants—

No, it'll help, it'll *help*—

"It's okay, Jason—*ah*—"

That sound. He wants *that* sound, and he gets it again, again— "That's—that's good, Tim, that's. Give it up for me—"

"*Jason*—"

"And you—call me Jay, sometimes—fucking *Christ*, I'm fucked up—"

Tim laughs, and it's just two breathy, rusty little noises before he's crying out again, but—

It has to mean something, even if it doesn't come close to making this all right, to making it anything other than what it is, what it feels like, what it's doing to Jason's *mind*—

"Oh—oh, that—"

"You liked that."

"I—it was more like what. Your fingers. Oh, almost—" And Tim's breathing is getting uneven again, getting—

He doesn't *have* to hold Tim's hips. He can—God, he's almost *soft*, and Jason can't. He pushes in deep and holds himself there, forcing himself to breathe when he only wants to *take*—

"Jason—Jay. I—you don't have to—"

"Yes. I. Do," Jason says, and bites Tim's neck again, tastes him and wants blood, wants—

"Oh, *God*—"

For his teeth or for his working hand? He knows what he hopes and he knows what he *wants*, but—yes, Tim getting harder for him, again, moving because he *has* to, but— "Stay still. Just for now. Just—feel this."

"I—I—all right. Oh, Jay, I can feel it everywhere, I can—I'm so *full*—"

"Yeah, and you're gonna *stay* that way for just a little while longer, just until..." Mm. Leaking on his fingers, and Jason has to take a moment to just *feel* that, let it answer a *little* of the screaming in his head, and—

The memories come in flashes, sensory *jolts*. Bruce's dick between his thighs *while* his thumb was up Jason's ass—

Bruce pushing in so slowly, so silently—

He wasn't breathing—

*Tim* isn't breathing—

"*Breathe*—"

"*Yes*, I'm sorry, I'm—oh God, Jason, I can't—please let me *move*—"

("Steady, Jay, you must—I need you *steady*—")

God, *please*, just let him get through this, let him take this and not fuck anything else up, let him not *hurt*—

("I can't *hurt* you, Jay—")

"Jay, no, please, I don't want to come, yet—"

"Tim—"

"It—it will be *harder*."

Bruce, and the way his breath at the base of Jason's spine had been a *threat*—

The way every touch meant more—more than he could handle, more than he could *stand*—

"*Tim*," and he sounds like he's fucking begging because he *is*, because somehow both of his hands are back on those hips—

"*Yes*, Jay, it's all right, I can—" And Tim reaches back to stroke Jason's thigh, feeling hair and scars and skin getting a little sleek with sweat, and maybe—

Maybe feeling like things are finally making sense, like he could finally know what his *place* was, what was needed, what was right—no.

Tim was never on the street and never—fuck, Jason can *feel* all the never, wrapped tight around his dick and squeezing—

Rhythmically. "Tim. You don't—"

A gasp and a shiver, a *nod* and a restless stroke, hungry stroke, desperate—

And that's his own voice he's hearing now—a little bit younger and a lot needy, begging Bruce not to stop, that it's worse when he stops, terrible, and please, Bruce, please don't make me beg for this, please I'll do anything—

"*Jay*—"

"Anything," Jason says, and it shouldn't feel this easy to thrust, shouldn't feel this right to shove himself in and *in*, and this time there's no break in perception, no sense of being outside himself. He's alive in his own body, a twist of something dark and *pulsing*, throbbing for the sound of Tim's cries, the way they've already lost their words again, the way Tim's hand is spasming on his thigh—

Except that now he's holding Tim's wrists, pressing them against the horse—

Not too hard, not too *hard*—

And the ticklish brush against his chest is Tim's hair as he throws his head back, the warmth all through him is the undeniable fact of this, and the way this won't be the only time—

The *promise* that this won't be the only time, because Tim is too good for him, too right and perfect, everything he wants, everything he's *asked* for—

And maybe that was supposed to be his name, but the noise of it—

It's better that it's incomprehensible, because Jason doesn't think he'd be able to fucking *appreciate* language, doesn't think he'd be able to hear—

Oh, God, so fucking *tight*—

Tim comes for him, for *this*, head tilted back far enough that Jason can see the tears at the corners of his eyes, his squeezed-shut eyes—

And he's shouting, helpless, heedless—

He opens his eyes and Jason gasps, groans, but there's no focus there, nothing—Tim can't see what's on his face, right now, and maybe that's for the best.

Maybe—

*Definitely* grab Tim's hips, because he was slumping, and Jason's not *done*—

"S-sorry—"

"*No*," and he really wishes he could be more specific than that, really—just now, for this—

To be something more than an *animal*—

And sometimes Bruce would turn away, shift until his face was in shadow until Jason had to haul on him by the fucking *ears* until he could see—

Everything. And Tim isn't worth less, isn't—

It's not *enough* to shift his grip until he has an arm around Tim's chest and Tim is pressed against him as much as possible. There should be something—"*Tim*," he tries, but there's nothing that comes after that but more of the same, more of him fucking *rutting* as Tim grunts and shakes—

And reaches up to wrap his arms around Jason's *neck*.

"*Tim*—"

"Sorry. I have to. Feel you. Oh my God, Jay, you're—it's so *much*—"

"I know. I know—*fuck*, I know, just hold on—"

And he *didn't* mean 'tighten your grip on my neck until I can feel every last one of your new muscles' but it's good, so good, so right it's going to fucking kill him—

Except that he really hadn't *counted* on Tim starting to give it *back* to him, working his hips like he wants it, like—"*Jesus*, Tim—"

"This. *This* rhythm—"

Jason groans and hopes that counts for an answer, because the only thing he has *left* is the rhythm—

"I think. Perhaps it would be more comfortable on my—my hands and knees—*oh*, Jay—"

Biting Tim's *arm*, now, and he's not going to draw blood, Tim shouldn't have to explain—

"I want—I didn't know I could want so *much*, Jay—"

Fuck.

*Fuck*, he can't—

A stutter in his rhythm and *he's* shaking, it's so good his body doesn't know how to fucking *handle* it, and Tim is still giving it to him, still working those hips—

Fucking *clenching*—

"Please come, Jay. I—I'm not sure how much—"

And his hand shouldn't be over Tim's mouth, he shouldn't be getting *higher* for that muffled shout, or for the way the next one's higher, better—*no*. He moves his hand again—

"Nnh—Jay. I'll try—to shut up now—"

"Don't, don't shut up, don't—fucking—"

He's clutching Tim too hard, he's taking too much—

He's coming, and the relief almost buries the pleasure, Tim's body just fucking *takes* him, swallows him—

Tim's mouth and Tim's hands, Tim's arms wrapped around him—

Tim's *body*, and no one else's, and he doesn't have a clue what sounds are coming out of his mouth, but it feels good to let it out, spill everything, show everything—

"*Jay*—"

And the best he can do is hold Tim tight to him as he drops to his knees, tight enough to keep the jar from being too much—

Tim still yelps for it, but Jason just—

Has to breathe. For some reason it's easier to do after he pushes his face against the back of Tim's neck, drags his nose against skin slicked with sweat and Jason's own saliva—

And Tim is petting him. The back of Jason's neck, his hair...

Jason squeezes his eyes shut. "You're trying to comfort me."

"Um. No?"

The laugh comes out low and almost normal-sounding, but Jason knows that has more to do with how little oxygen he's giving himself than with anything else, and—

"Oh. Your. That almost burns. Um. A little," Tim says, and shivers once as Jason traces his hole.

"Yeah, it'll do that. Focus on your breathing for me, because you're *not* going to enjoy the feeling of me pulling out."

"I already know—that. Ah." Tim pulls his arms from around Jason's neck and sets his hands on his thighs, pulling on his control and maybe his game face—

"Just your breathing for now, Tim. I..." Jason shakes his head and strokes Tim's chest, his throat, the insides of his thighs.

"O-okay. That feels very... good."

"Heh. That wasn't what you were going to say," and Jason drags his short nails up those thighs...

"Well. It's also kind of. I mean it seems. I—possessive."

Bruce's hands on his back after a fuck that had left him panting and doing everything in his fucking *power* not to whimper— "Yeah, probably. Keep breathing."

"Of course. I... Jason—Jay. It only hurt a little... after a while."

"The human body is resilient that way. I didn't want to hurt you with this, at all."

"I—know that. Now," and Tim turns to look at him, frown line getting deeper—probably for the fact that he can't see Jason as well as he wants to. And...

"The first few times... I needed to see Bruce. Needed to see his face, see if he was feeling anything like what I was feeling, make *sure*..."

"Yes, that. I—that."

"You made me come so hard I *fell*, kid—Tim. I..." Jason shakes his head again and leans in to bite the side of Tim's throat. *Lightly*.

"I—know you don't want me to say it, or even talk around it, Jason, but that—it's better that you lost control. It really. Meant something."

Jason closes his eyes and tries to think of a way to change that, blunt it, *alter* it—

And he thinks of the way that other Tim had looked at him before they were fighting in earnest, the way the hollowness and the *need* were obvious enough to make him insane—

He hadn't needed anything to make him insane. He kisses Tim's throat and squeezes him a little before moving his hands back down to Tim's hips. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. I can—I can do it myself—"

"Let me," Jason says, and wonders why he needs this, too—no, he knows. He needs something that at least *looks* like control. A little of it, anyway. He pulls Tim off inch by slow inch, and the drag and friction is wonderful, horrible torture for his dick and must feel like getting fucked all over again to Tim—

No, it would be worse than that. A pull that seems to take everything inside you, a shift in the *come* inside you and the knowledge that you're dirty from this, marked by it.

Nothing will be the same—

"There's—I. *Loss*, Jason. Jay. Um. When *should* I call you Jay?"

Whenever I'm fucking you— "When we're alone, when you feel like it. Don't do it if it doesn't seem—"

("May I... does anyone ever call you Jay?")

"Natural. I..." Out, and the air feels cold and unforgiving on his dick, on all the moisture—he looks, and yeah, there's blood, dark and streaked. "Don't be surprised by the blood when you go to the bathroom."

Tim nods. "Is there... a lot?"

"Not as much as there could be, more—" A lot more. "More than I wanted," and when Jason releases Tim's hips, Tim turns immediately, wincing—

Forcing his features to blankness and then, from there, to something like worry. "I'm all right, Jay. That was... very intense?" Tim laughs quietly. "I don't think the words that are coming to mind are adequate."

"Just—" Tell me you'll want it *again*. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

Tim nods and stands, steady on his feet—and very clearly determined to stay that way. Jason follows him to the bathroom because he has to, feeling ridden by something nameless and impossibly heavy until they're both in the old tub and the water is sheeting cold on them both—no, wait.

"Don't get your hair wet—"

"I know. I—I know," Tim says, and the smile on his face is cautious and a little horrible, because he's *feeling* all the ways Jason is fucked up in his head, right now, and—

Jason grabs the soap out of Tim's hand and lathers Tim up, focusing only on getting him clean, getting him *right* again. His dick is soft and vulnerable, his sac loose and even softer in ways Jason doesn't think he's capable of describing. Better to crouch down and take care of his legs while the water finally warms to something comfortable and Tim—

Stands steady. Quiet.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut—stops. "What's on your mind."

"You don't seem. When I thought of you doing this—er, not the washing part, because that really didn't come up. Ah—I had been... thinking that you might be. Happier."

For fucking a kid too lonely and screwed-up to know that he was supposed to run the fuck *away* from people like him? *Really*? Jason looks up from washing Tim's feet with his eyebrows raised—

"It really *did* seem like a reasonable assumption to *make*, Jason. The endorphins alone—"

"I'm high on getting off. Your ass was gripping me so tight I saw fucking *stars*, kid—Tim." Jason shakes his head. "That wasn't right."

"I disagree."

"Tim—"

"I *disagree*. You—you're making me into *Robin*, Jay, and that—"

"Means you should be prepared to bend over any time your teacher wants? What the fuck kind of dojo did you *go* to, anyway?"

Tim's laugh is brief and—angry. "You know that's not what I mean. I—obviously you think you did something wrong with me, and I suppose that curious expression on your face means that you're hating yourself for it, but—you already pointed out how unattractive that is. I—" Tim turns around and gives Jason his back. "It's just that I'm not sure what to do with that other than to—disagree."

"You're too fucking *young*—"

"If I'm not too young to slice off parts of a man's face or to, perhaps, kill someone, I can't possibly be too young for sex," Tim says, pedantic and *even*.

Even as a fucking level, which means... something. Jason slips soapy fingers into Tim's cleft—

"Oh—that's. Extraordinarily embarrassing, actually."

Jason snorts. "Distracts from the pain, I bet."

"There's that. Ah... Jason, I really am all *right*. You don't have to... I mean, *are* you beating yourself up?"

"Be confident. *Go* with those deductions," and Jason can't hold back all of the smile as he soaps Tim's back.

"Well—all right. You're beating yourself up, probably *because* you lost control and hurt me, but you were already planning to fuck me at *some* point. You wouldn't have had me buy that toy, otherwise—"

"I *might've* just been giving idle hands something to do," Jason says, and pulls and pushes Tim until he's under the water, tilting his head back to keep his hair out of the stream and generally looking like something Jason *wants*—

"You weren't. You wanted it. Something... something about me, or maybe about your memories *made* you want it, and you don't deny yourself things like that unless there's a good, Mission-related reason. It's just not the way you work."

"And how *do* I work?"

"Your emotions and your... physicality play a role in the decisions you make, but that doesn't mean you don't think. You have very clear ideas of right and wrong—clear enough to be frightening to other people, and that doesn't always bother you. It doesn't even *often* bother you. You... you want me to be absolutely clear about *everything* this life entails, so much that it's more like a need some of the time. It's mostly about making me into the best Robin I can be, but you also *do* see me as young and vulnerable at least some of the time, and you can't help wanting to protect me," and Tim turns a little to face him. "You're a good man."

"Don't—"

"You *are*, Jason, and maybe it's wrong that you wanted to fuck me, and that you wanted to fuck me like *that*, but it doesn't feel that way. I feel... settled in my own skin in a way I never have before—and part of you knew *that* would happen, too." Tim strokes his body with his hands, wiping away soap residue. I just—you can give me a gentler touch without resorting to *kid gloves*, Jay."

Jason traces the scars on Tim back and breathes, thinks— "And what if I *can't* give you a gentler touch?"

"Then I learn to take what you *can* give me. I—it won't be hard, Jay. I'll never forget what you did to me, what you made me feel. And I'll never forget that when I asked—you gave."

Asked. *Gave*—

"Or—all right. When I *demanded*—at knifepoint..." Tim laughs again. "There's something to be said for... ah. Consistency of tone."

And there's really nothing to do with that other than to spin Tim around to face him and pull him close, to *know* the feeling of Tim stiffening in surprise and, perhaps, apprehension, before the deliberate relaxation—and the slim, hard arms wrapped around Jason's waist.

("Your father... I promise you, Jay, I'll never lie to you again, never hold anything *back*.")

And he hadn't. Not one single, solitary thing. No matter how much less fucked up it would've been if he had.

"I *am* yours, Jay. And that means... whatever we let it mean."

Jason pushes back and raises his eyebrows. "Not whatever *I* want it to mean?"

The smile is wet again, *sly* again—and that's definitely a hand on his balls. "I'm sure you're right, Jason. I don't know what I was thinking."

Right. That—is a whole lot of answers at once. Jason reaches down and grips Tim's wrist until the bones grind together a little—

And Tim lets go. "I suppose we can wait for another time?"

"You—get a couple of nights off from fucking yourself, Tim. And a couple of days of not even *mentioning* anal in my presence."

Tim raises his own eyebrow. "It was that good."

Jason lets go of Tim's wrist and smacks him—*lightly* upside the head. "It was fantastic. I wouldn't be this fucked up about it if it wasn't, so stop asking."

Tim—nods solemnly. "Perhaps next time—"

"Tim—"

"I—all right," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. And shifts his shoulders in an odd gesture—

No, it's not odd, at all. It's just that there's no gi in the way of seeing it—and no gi to rub and scrape against his light little knife scars. And why, exactly, is that *less* upsetting than Tim actually wanting to be fucked again? It's a question for another time. For—

That was the longest conversation they've ever had. *That*—

Motherfuck.

Jason washes up quickly, aware of Tim's eyes on him, Tim's *focus* on the body he's known was attractive from nearly the beginning of his puberty, for better or worse. He lets Tim scrub his back, and then he sends Tim to towel off and dress while he gives in to the urge to wash himself again.

The water runs clean, and he steps out in time—Tim would've made sure of it, he knows—to see Tim hitching on his backpack and heading for the door.

"Tonight," Jason says, and lets himself drip on the old cement floor.

Tim nods and goes.


	15. Chapter 15

The Tailor's work is perfect—better than spec in terms of the armor at the lower spine which still leaves room for Tim's knife. He makes Tim practice pulling it in various positions, in the middle of various moves—

He makes Tim *move* in the suit, and watching that—

It feels like Gotham is reaching in through the cracks in the insulation, like the night is right there *waiting* even though it's not quite sundown, like—

"Faster," he says, and Tim pulls his staff, leaping and tumbling, rolling and twisting—

He's fighting a shadow-gang again, and sometimes Jason thinks it's his favorite thing to do—

But then he thinks about what it was like to have Tim on the *street* these past few nights—still without his suit—when there've been *real* gangs to take out—after Jason had taken care of the few guns. Tim likes:

Breaking jaws.

Shattering kneecaps.

Breaking *hands*, which—mm. He has a gift for remembering which of the targets are right or left-handed, and for making a point of *destroying* the hands in question with his staff.

Tim likes—

Last night, Jason had backed out of a knife-fight and let Tim wade in with his own knives. He'd pulled out the stops a little *too* much for his own stamina, and the fight had lasted seconds before their target was bleeding on the ground, coughing and crying and gripping the ruin of his scrotum.

Tim likes destroying pimps *just* as much as Jason does, and it's beautiful to watch.

Just—beautiful—

Cape tangling at Tim's neck and shoulder—

Tim growls and moves into a spin with his staff, backing up and waiting, obviously, for Jason's advice. "Think of it—your shape with the cape is larger and more fluid. You like physics—go with it."

"Larger. Fluid," and Tim nods and goes back into his shadow-play—and now he's treating the cape almost like back-up, spinning and moving in ways that would make the quickest eye doubt just where the actual body *is*.

"Yeah, nice—"

Tim leaps, striking down with the staff and using the cape—

"No, you could get grabbed that way. You want more of a tumble in the air."

"I—am beginning to want a shorter cape."

Heh, probably. "You *will* get this. Trust me."

"I do," Tim says, and it sounds like a lot more than that—

It *always* sounds like a lot more than that, and Jason's afraid that he's getting used to it. That he's—weakening? Softening? It's damned fucking *hard* to look at Tim *doing* this and not want... more.

More of absolutely *everything*, *because* it's there for the taking. All his, and knowing that he'd bypassed Tim's natural sense of security and self, knowing that he'd gotten *all* the way in—

In.

He's thus far managed to avoid fucking Tim in his parents' house—he just doesn't *trust* himself not to rip out any gag he uses—and that means everywhere *in* this place has become somewhere with distinct and wonderful possibilities.

Tim had given him a brief lesson in pederasty when he'd taken Tim's thighs while they were on the mats, laughing all the way through it.

Tim had fucking *crooned* for him the last time Jason had sucked him off, petting Jason's hair and somehow managing to stay *still* right up until Jason had urged him to fuck his mouth—and he'd had Tim up on his work-table again.

On his bed, up in the loft, and he hadn't managed to strip Tim out of *all* of the uniform. There'd been armor under his hands when he'd stroked up to Tim's shoulders, and skin when he'd given up everything and cupped Tim's hips, skin when he'd stroked Tim back to hardness, heat and *friction* as he'd fucked his way in, so far *in* while Tim cried out and *shook*—

He's *pretty* sure there's no part of Tim thinking about sex right now, as opposed to the problem of his calf-length cape, but there's only so far down thoughts like that can be *buried* at Tim's age...

Which just begs the question of what *his* excuse is—

And what Bruce's had been, of course.

("Please don't say no to me, Jay, not when I can smell you, taste you in the air—please.")

Tim is always ready for him, always ready to set training aside for a quickie—or something a lot more involved.

His fingers know the inside of Tim's body and so does his dick. He can call up the taste of Tim's mouth in a heartbeat, as well as the sound of every last noise Tim has given him, from the terrifyingly helpless whimpers, high enough to make something inside Jason *seize*, to the low, groaning growls when Jason goes too slowly, too—gently. Which is not to say he isn't accepting of those touches, but—

Tim knows what Jason *likes*, knows what takes Jason out of his head until he's just slamming in, thrust after thrust, bite after *bite*—

Maybe. *Maybe* he can ease things back a little bit by pulling his knife on Tim the next time he's balls deep and wanting to adjust, waiting to remember all those good things he tells himself about making it slow and easy...

*That* would make Tim stay still instead of rocking back against him—

"Still no. You're overcompensating for the weight of the cape—hm. *Is* it getting to you?"

Tim puts his staff up into a spin and works himself around, shifting his shoulders, pushing up on his toes— "It's noticeable, but—I don't think so? I'm strong enough for it."

And he's not just saying that to keep Jason happy, because he'd beaten that out of him months back, now... hm. "You need crossfire training."

"I—yes," Tim says, and moves into one of the staff-centric katas. "I don't suppose you've had any ideas on how to do that without Bruce...?"

Only if he goes to *Dick* for it, to the Titans... and then he might as well *be* going to Bruce. Jason shakes his head. "I know how to pump you full of bullets, and how to *miss* you. I *have* rubber bullets to make up for any mistakes—or fucking *innovations*—you make..."

"But it can't be here. I—in retrospect I really am surprised that it never occurred to me that Bruce would have a training space underground."

Jason nods and thinks about the satellite Caves—and the fact that he *doesn't* know for sure how to disable all the alarms. "It just has to keep waiting."

Tim nods. "You think... crossfire training will help me learn to use the cape?"

"I *know* it will. That's how Bruce trained me *and* Dick, even though our capes were much shorter. No, for now you go out without it."

"And keep riding... bitch."

Heh. "You *could* just call it 'pillion,' you know."

Tim manages to make the spin of his staff both rude and challenging. "Just as soon as you start thinking of it that way," he says, and taps the mats twice with the butt. "Show me how to use it in a fight situation again?"

Oh, yeah. "Done."

And...

There's something obscene, something *naked* about the look of Tim on the street when he's all suited up *except* for the cape. It's something in the spare and desperately lean lines of his body, in the gelled stiffness of his hair—less extreme than the pictures he'd seen of that other Tim once upon a time, but still hard enough to keep his hair out of his face entirely.

It's just a little aerodynamic, and Jason can't decide if he wants to tell Tim to just get his hair *cut* or to keep it just like it is. There's a rightness to the way it looks with the reds, blacks, and golds of his uniform...

Jason doesn't know.

He looks *good*, and Jason can't ever bring himself to make Tim stay on the bike while he tenderizes the targets for him. Let him get close, let him *watch* the way Jason leaves the targets healthier and healthier so that Tim can get as much practice as possible—

It's not practice anymore. Not really.

Not when Tim's only response to a *surprise* gun in this latest clutch of dealers is to knock the thing right out of the guy's hand and kick in his ribs before turning to the rest.

Not when Tim's flights are even and precise—brutal when he sends the steel in his boots right into another dealer's face—

And not when he carves up the faces of a couple of asshole fratboys—by the look—who were taking out their frustrations on one of the girls from down on Simone.

It's patrol with a *partner*, and Jason's all set to think it's as good as it's *going* to get—except that Tim stops him from nearly getting brained with a garbage can lid by a guy who *should've* been dropped by his stab wound. No shout and no hesitation—just two strikes to the back of the guy's head and one seriously unconscious motherfucker. And all the confidence he needs to go back to punishing the guy's buddies—

Tim gasps, but there are knives out, now, and Jason doesn't want to risk dividing his attention again. He can take care of himself. If he can't, he knows the code words—

Two batarangs, two assholes with stinging hands and the clatter of knives hitting the pavement. Oh—

Shit, because his *body* recognizes the feel of *that* gauntleted hand in his collar, that rush of the world moving past his peripheral vision—and yeah, he's bouncing against a wall.

Tim is just about free of the bolo around his ankles, and—focus. "Batman. Are you gonna finish these two off or are you just planning to fuck everything but the—heh—family reunion?"

"Who *are* you."

That voice. That *voice*—and the cowl is right, the suit, the feel of the man's *energy*, like a wall pressing down from every direction at once—

Except that the edges are ragged as *fuck*. There's a smell the armor only gets when it's been used too long, and Bruce doesn't have stubble as much as the beginnings of a *beard*—

"Fucking *cope*, *Batman*—"

Except that Tim's up and dealing with the other two dealers handily. And—Bruce is letting him.

"Or not," Jason says, and deliberately relaxes as much as he can when there's a large, fucked up man trying to lift him by his shirt—

"They're all unconscious," Tim says, quiet and sure. "Batman, it's *him*—"

"Tim Drake. You've been watching me. This is *not* the way to acquire my attention—"

"On the street—you call me *Robin*."

And it's not like the uniform doesn't have the R-shuriken right there, not like Tim doesn't look every fucking *inch* Robin—*including* the knife in his hand that he'd used on the bolo—

But Batman—*Bruce*—is managing to look shaken and seriously confused. Which...

Had Jason waited too long? Is he too far gone? "Snap *out* of it, *Bruce*. Take a DNA sample from me and go on home, because Robin and I? Have *got* this."

Hesitation—*need*—

But then he's bouncing against the wall again—and *hurriedly* giving Tim the stand-down signal—

"You." Bruce snarls and *rips* Jason's domino off—

"Mother*fuck*—"

"Your mother's eyes. Your. Who *are* you?"

"I'm *me*. Just from a different universe," Jason says, and—Bruce *lets* Jason shove him back—

And twists Tim's knife out of his fingers—

"That's *mine*—"

"It is, B. I trained him to use it, myself. I trained *him*, myself. Everything you taught me that I could reasonably share—and everything I picked up from... heh. Other people."

"The League of Assassins," Bruce says, gritting it out like maybe it'll cut his tongue open if he's not careful.

"Among others," Jason says, and straightens his jacket. And gestures at the knife Bruce is just letting *dangle* from his fingers.

"This *isn't* appropriate—"

"Neither is your lack of control, Batman," Tim says, and shoulders his way between them. "You've lost yourself. You've lost sight of the *Mission*. And right now you're acting more like someone with a nasty case of the DTs than the trained vigilante you are."

That—Jason bites back the laugh—

Jason watches Bruce *hear* it just the same, watches him *feel* it—

He shakes it off. "Listen to the kid, why don't you? He's pretty fucking smart, B—and he's your new partner."

"I don't *have* a—open your mouth."

"And say 'ah?' Or something dirtier? Truer? Dad...?" Jason gives himself one more *moment* to smirk, and then opens his mouth for the cheek swab, trying like hell not to pay too much attention to the way Bruce's hands are shaking, the way his breathing is fucked *beyond* all recognition... "Go *home*. Run the results—"

"Take a shower. And a *nap*," Tim says, and—

Yeah. "Seriously, B. You're making a *terrible* first impression on Robin."

"He's *not*—"

Bruce turns and flies, using his cape just like he's the man he's supposed to be, the legend—

In flight.

And Tim's knife is wedged in a two-by-four. Jason yanks it out and hands it back, noting Tim testing the edge with a frown on his face and watching—

Just watching.

"He's unstable."

"No doubt."

"J... I don't think. He's not *safe*."

"And who are you trying to protect, exactly...?"

Tim doesn't have an answer for that, but Jason can't make Batman out of all the other darkness and shadows, anymore.

He shakes his head and turns to Tim, resting his hands on Tim's shoulders and *feeling* a need to tell Tim to look up even though he already is. Call it dimension-lag. "He was never safe. To anyone—but especially not to the people he's closest to."

"He—he didn't even—" Tim frowns and shakes *his* head.

"What? Worried that he didn't pay enough attention to you? Heh. He knew who you *were*, which means that he fucking *felt* those eyes of yours on him that last party."

If anything, that makes Tim frown *harder*—

"Hey, remember who he *is*. Remember the fact that he's been training to *be* this since before you were *born*. He knew you couldn't do anything to take him, and so he treated you like a secondary issue. Which—for him, right *now*—you are."

"I don't—I don't *need* his *attention*."

And that—is the heart of things. "You will, R. You really, really will—"

"J—"

"Just trust me—and start *preparing* yourself for the feeling. You're an unknown quantity right now, but... that won't last."

"He ran *away*. He—he let us *send* him away—"

"And he made a godawful first impression, yeah. Look at it this way—part of him was working well enough to know that the two of us can do more good than harm. *Part* of him was watching us for just that long—and that means he was watching *you*. He *could've* decided to drag your ass back to your parents."

Tim shudders—*just* the way he should.

Jason squeezes his shoulders again. "Not that I would've *let* that happen—" And he's struck, sudden and *hard*, by the *fact* that he just might've been able to *take* Bruce tonight. Take him without getting too badly hurt *himself*—

Fucking A, Bruce—

Jason shakes it off internally. "Anyway. Just wait until he *does* get a good night's sleep or two. And be *ready*."

"Yes... yes, J."

Jason nods and claps Tim's shoulders. "Let's hit it. The whole city is ours, right now."

Tim sheathes his knife and nods back.

They roll.


	16. Chapter 16

It's a little on the late side when he drops Tim off, and it's too hard not to *feel* him. Just—thrumming with everything they'd done that night, everything he'd seen and everything he *knows* right now—

Jason follows Tim in and kisses him hard, taking some of that energy for himself until he can feel it, too.

He pulls back and helps Tim strip down, and he's silent except for his breathing, except for sharp little hums that are barely *louder* than breaths.

"You can feel it, can't you?"

"I feel—ah. A lot. A lot of things I'm not sure about," Tim says, stepping *back* so he can take his belt off as carefully as Jason had taught him, and it just makes Jason itch to have him *closer*.

"The ground's shifting under your feet a little—"

"*Yes*. I—Jay, he's not supposed to be—"

"Just a man...?" Jason smiles and hooks his fingers in Tim's waistbands.

"He's not supposed to just be a man like *that*," Tim says, toeing off his boots—

Jason shoves the tights and shorts down to Tim's thighs, and lets himself pause to cup Tim through the boxer-briefs his parents almost certainly haven't noticed that he's started wearing. "He needs you."

"He needs *something*."

"You're gonna bring him *back*," Jason says, squeezing *hard* when Tim shakes his head. "You're *gonna* bring him *back*."

"He doesn't even *see* me, Jay—"

"Oh, yeah he does. You're already in there a little. Enough that he recognized you, put *some* of the little pieces together... heh. *Naked*."

Tim steps back again and finishes stripping, tucking the uniform away because it didn't get dirty enough for Jason to take it—and how grateful is he for every moment spent figuring out just how Alfred did what he did when he did it? But—

It won't be long before Alfred's doing it *again*, before Tim is just another one of Alfred's *charges*. Another black-haired, blue-eyed boy, another Robin, another—

Another *moment* to feel Tim slipping away from him. It's right and it's the way it has to *be*, but it still feels like several different kinds of necessary to walk Tim back to his bed with one hand on his shoulder and the other wrapped around Tim's *dick*.

He's got his own damned glove between his teeth—

He spits it out on the duvet and starts to stroke, looking *deep* into those hot and cold flashing blue eyes and seeing hunger, lust, fear, doubt, need—"*With* me, Tim—"

"Always. *Always*," and maybe it shouldn't feel better once Tim closes his eyes, but it does. There's that trust and that *need*, the sense of Tim giving himself into Jason's—hands.

All the more reason to push Tim down and take off his *other* glove—

Tim pulls his knees back to his chest and fucking well *asks* for what he wants, and—

Why not? He's taken everything else, *had* everything else—

And there's a part of him which only wants to call that a lie, which throws up image after image of Tim tied up and tied *down*, Tim bleeding and Tim over his lap—

But the basics, the body-to-body...

"On your belly for me—no, wait. Hands and knees."

Tim flashes him a smile that only feels like it should be illegal because it *is*. Just—

"What the hell are you doing with a nineteen year old *boyfriend*, kid?"

"Hopefully achieving orgasm... relatively soon," Tim says, laughing *under* his voice and settling on his hands and knees nice and *pretty*.

Had Bruce stopped by here before following them? Would he have had the time? Wanted to be sure that he recognized *that* jawline, those cheekbones?

Would he come back out to visit?

It wouldn't take Bruce long to prepare the sample for testing...

But right *now*, Bruce is only here in *spirit*. Jason spreads Tim's cheeks and takes a nice, *long* lick—

"*Oh*. Jason—"

"I used to hate when he did this to me," Jason says, lips and tongue moving against that tight little hole, his favorite little hole— "I'm still not sure how I feel about it."

"Um. Neither am I?"

"Heh. Reserve *judgment*," and Jason takes another lick, another, circles Tim's hole and stabs in against the clench, against the feel of Tim shuddering for him—

"Oh. God. That's so—I don't—I don't *know*."

"Uh, huh. Kinda heats you up all over, but *not* the way other sex does. It's more... mm. A humid day, a sense of yourself being exactly as dirty as you *are*—"

"I—*yes*. I should. Maybe if I showered?"

"Nuh-uh. It's better this way. I can *taste* your sweat—and your tight little ass," Jason says, slipping in again and just staying there for a little while, working his tongue in short little motions—

"Nnh—ah. I. Fuck. Oh, fuck. Jason. Jay. Please?"

Jason pushes in as deep as he *can*—

"*Please*—fuck. I—don't want to be loud. Don't want—Jason, could you—Jay, why do you want this?"

Jason pulls out with a *slurp*—

Tim shudders and clenches for him, hole looking so sweet—

Jason goes back in for a nice, hard kiss, pulling Tim's cheeks apart as far as they'll go, far enough that his taint has to feel tight and vulnerable, like something that could *tear*—

"Oh, *God*, Jay—I. Please, please. Please—fuck me, or—something, I can't—"

"I want this," Jason says, pulling back to *breathe* on Tim, "because I haven't had it before. Because I need you to feel everything *I've* felt. Because... you need to be *ready*. And I need you to be ready, need you to... mm. You were so *fucking* good tonight..."

"Always. Always want to be good for you—"

"You didn't take *anything*, and Bruce is gonna remember that, Tim. He'll *always* know he can't get away with anything with you."

"I—*good*. He *can't*. I—Jason, please. More?"

"My tongue? Sure," and Jason shoves back in—

Tim moans and shifts, pulling—yeah, he's trying to get away, and then forcing himself to relax, and then trying to get away *again*—

Good *boy*, and Jason's hips want to move, Jason's hips *are* moving, and the jock is getting to be the kind of torture he fucking *lived* for once upon a time, when the night was fresh and new—

He doesn't need the torture right *now*. He pulls back long enough to free himself, and then just lets himself hang while he opens Tim up again, licks him and fucks him and thinks about Bruce doing *just* this—to *Tim*, not himself.

Would Tim make those noises? Little *crooning* noises like maybe Jason is soothing as much as he's fucking. It's—he *can* imagine Tim being silent for it save for his breathing, but he knows that would just drive Bruce a little crazy, make him do something like—

Oh, like—*this*, and shoving his thumb in beside his tongue may have been the best idea he's had all *night*, because Tim's clenching over and over now, clawing at the duvet until it makes that kind of *sleek* sound, whispery and electric. *Tim's* noises are croons broken up with gasping little *sharp* noises, high-pitched and terrible, perfect—

Tim's voice is never going to *be* all that deep, and Jason thinks that's one of the reasons he can take this, *deal* with it—

Jason knows that's not even close to the whole of it, knows that *he* was turned, once upon a time...

And he's fucking Tim steadily now, using his thumb to open Tim *wider*, and to maybe make this easier. A little pain, a little *hurt*—

"Jay—Jay, I'm going to—I don't—oh, please make me *come*—"

When you ask so *nicely*...

Jason uses his thumb to fuck Tim in *counterpoint* with his tongue, digs his fingers in against those hips again until maybe there'll be new bruises, new *proof* that this is his, even if nothing else can be—

Oh, Bruce—

Tim's noises get fractionally louder and infinitely more uncontrolled, and the smell of his sweat is high in the air, mild and thick at once—

*Sex*, and Jason can feel himself leaking pre-come, feel himself *needing* to give himself a squeeze—or something better.

Not now. Not until he can make Tim lose it for him, give it *all* up for him—

And the shaking is a good start, the feel of Tim teetering right on that sweet, sweet *edge*. He wants to tell Tim to hold his breath. He wants to choke Tim again, press his thumbs in against the back of Tim's neck and hold Tim's head against the bed while he *fucks* his way in, and never mind lube—

No, Tim's not ready for that kind of fuck, yet, and won't be for a *long* time. Maybe long past the time when he has to move on—

And he's not thinking about that right now, not thinking of Tim's denial or anything but the need, the energy, the *power* of this, because Tim's *working* his hips now, trying to get more—

"Just like that," Jason says, slurring and grinning when it makes Tim *gurgle* for him—

So *fucking* good, and Jason has to add this to the list of things he'll be doing to Tim as much as he can, as much as he *wants*—but.

He pulls back. "Come for me. Come from *this*."

"Ah—*hnh*. You—oh, God, please, Jay, please don't stop again, *please*—"

Faster and *harder* then, and Tim's such a good boy, such a good *fuck* the way he's clenching deliberately now, trying and *failing* to do it rhythmically as he pants and squirms, writhes and shakes—

Jason pulls his thumb out and grabs Tim's sac instead, *pumping* it in his fist until Tim's noises start getting dangerous, start getting *broad* somehow, coming from deep in his chest—

And getting muffled—with his own wrist, by the sound, and it feels like Jason's hard enough to *kill* someone, right now, but he knows the only casualty will be himself, his sense of pride, his *idea* of himself as someone with anything that could be considered *control*—

"*Ohn*—"

And the sound goes on and on as Tim's clenches lose anything like coherency, as they seem to get hooked *in* to all those shudders—

*Tight* clench—and the silence that means Tim's orgasm had hit him *just* that hard. Jason tongues him through it and just a little bit more, aching a little for the way Tim's hole just *relaxes* for him—

But there'd been more blood last time. He'd promised not until *tomorrow* at the earliest—

And he can't keep himself from growling for that—especially since it makes Tim tense up and try to spread his legs wider—mm.

Jason pulls back and gives himself the squeeze he's been needing, thinks about jerking off on Tim's back, about nestling himself in that sweet little cleft—except that that *would* lead to him fucking Tim again. "On your back."

Tim does it—and pulls his knees up to his chest. And raises an eyebrow.

Jason smiles and shakes his head. "Legs down."

Tim licks his lips and does it, and then swipes come from his abdomen and brings it to his mouth.

"Ooh, I do like *you*. Or are you just doing that to make *sure* I know that your mouth is an option available to me?"

The eyebrow gets a little higher and there's a *twitch* at the corner of that mouth. That *sucking* mouth.

"Uh, huh. I hear you. But... tonight was special. And I know how I want to celebrate," Jason says, and pulls his kris, watching Tim's eyes follow the gleam of streetlights on it before Tim looks up into Jason's eyes and pushes up onto his elbows. "Yeah, like that."

"I... if I may make a suggestion?"

Ooh, some more. "Go right on ahead, freakboy. I'm listening."

And Tim settles on his right elbow and traces his left pec. Right where the 'R' goes.

"Heh. Thinking of something permanent?"

"Perhaps something more abstract than representational... but yes, I'd like to feel it even when I'm not wearing it."

"I *could* say something here about how there'll come a day when you won't be able to *stop* feeling it, no matter how much you *want* to—"

"I have my doubts... about the latter part of that statement," Tim says, and settles back on both elbows again. "Which is not to say that I don't trust you."

Too much. *Just* enough. And a part of Jason can already smell Tim's blood. Yeah, he's doing this. "What's your excuse for the bandage?"

Tim narrows his eyes for a moment— "I was making myself some pasta and dropped the pot. Boiling water splashed me."

Jason thinks about it... good enough, especially since there'll be no way Tim *can* explain the actual scars, and—

They've *already* reached the point where Tim won't be able to go shirtless without questions being raised. Hm.

"What *do* you do about gym class?"

"A t-shirt under my clothes at all times. I never take it off."

Jason nods and lets himself live in the *satisfaction* for a moment, the warmth that goes straight for his dick but doesn't leave the rest of his body cold, at all. He slices a three-inch arc right above Tim's nipple, echoing the curve of the areola and watching Tim's eyes narrow again, watching the blood well and drip.

Another arc above it, and the feel of the skin's slight resistance transmits itself through the blade, through the handle—

Jason grunts and makes one more slice above *that*, flipping the knife next to Tim's mouth so he can lick—

And watch Jason with steady, *burning* eyes. "Yours," Tim says, and makes a point of licking his lips, smearing blood there and making his mouth look that much more beautiful, perfect—

"Good boy."

"What you made me."

Jason's dick twitches and there's no reason whatsoever not to let the groan out. He'd gone too *fast*. There's nothing more he wants to do right now—no, that's a lie. There's a *lot* more he wants to do right now, but the fact of the matter is that Tim only *has* a limited amount of skin—and he has to be careful about scarring him badly enough that the skin won't stretch as he grows.

Jason tucks the knife away and pushes Tim flat, one hand splayed on Tim's chest with blood trickling down by his pinky and ring finger. They have to be careful of blood stains—

Which is all the more reason to lean in and *lick*, fast to get the excess, slow for Tim's whimpering moan, for his own rising—fucking *spiraling*—awareness of the taste, the metal-shear *stink*—

"Jay..."

Right here, he doesn't have to say. Right *here*, and he sucks at the deepest cut, resisting the urge to try to shove his tongue *in*—Tim's already going to have to disinfect the hell out of these cuts.

"You—I wish I knew—" Tim sighs and arches, beneath him, moans—

Jason pulls back for just long enough to say "tell me," before leaning back in and *dragging* his lips over the cuts, aching for the way smooth skin breaks, the way blood touches and *runs*—

"I don't—I feel I *should* want to mark *you*. I... I mean, I do, but it's more that I want to bite you that hard, or suck you that hard, or—" Tim's laugh is quiet and low. "Or actually get a *blow* in during one of our spars."

Jason nods and strokes down Tim's side to his hip, lifting it because he can—

"Oh, I—am not saying everything. Which is a pretty passive aggressive thing *for* me to say, but. Jay. Jay..."

Jason gives Tim the continue gesture...

"It's just that I love this. I love that you want this, that I can give it to you... I love that you can *change* my body for your own... your own *pleasure*. It's almost better than all the training."

Jason hums and thinks about starting a spar with Tim *on* the balance beam, about tossing Tim down to the mats and just rubbing himself off on every *convenient* stretch of Tim's skin, about teaching Tim how to fucking *vamp* as a woman—

He'd actually look a little like *Catwoman*—

Jason swallows back the laugh and thinks about Bruce gagging for this, for everything *Tim* can give him. Look what I made for you. *Need* what I made for you—

"I wonder. Ah—should I be reading up about other... kinks? Are there other... I mean. I'd like to be tied up, sometime. For something other than escape artistry training—"

"We'll do it," Jason says, and his voice is low, dark and heavy and *needy*—

"Oh, Jay. You're so—you want so *much* right now—"

"You can feel it."

"*Yes*. I—I know you said we had to wait again—"

"I'm not fucking you again tonight. Because I could either do it as hard as I want and risk *seriously* hurting you, or I could just frustrate myself—and you, too."

Tim frowns, bites his lip—nods.

Jason takes a good, *hard* look at Tim's mouth—and another at his chest. He's still *leaking*, but it's not enough to risk the comforter all that much. Jason kneels up and sits on his heels. "Suck me."

Tim makes a little *purring* sound and shifts until his head is in Jason's lap. "Fast or slow?"

Jason closes his eyes, but there's no getting away from his internal clock. "Fast," he says, and cups the back of Tim's head, letting himself feel the curve of his skull, the broken spikes of his hair, the fuzz on the back of his neck—

And the wet, sweet *heat* of Tim's mouth. Not as tight as it could be, not quite as *hot* as where he wants to be—

And then Tim's sucking, licking, and *working* his head, fucking *smoking* Jason's dick, and Jason can't keep the gasp in and doesn't *want* to do a damned thing about the sigh.

"You are *so* good—"

Tim hums and goes *all* the way down for a *hot* little second, taking Jason in so *deep*—

"Oh, yeah, Tim. You—" Jason grits out a laugh as Tim pulls back. "Little tease. And you already know that *wasn't* a complaint."

Another hum and Tim goes back to working himself, wrapping a hand around the base and squeezing—

And yeah, there's that hand on his sac, teasing and tugging, pressing and squeezing—

Jason lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, giving in and giving *up*, because this is exactly as good as it should be, as close to right as any of this is likely to *get*.

His mouth is full of the taste of Tim's blood, and his body is humming, skin sparking and itching with fresh sweat until he pumps his hips and the itch becomes just another part of the burn, the sickly-dangerous fever heat running through him—

But he has to *see*, and maybe that need was just another way the energy between them is working them both, because Tim is looking up, staring and studying his reactions...

Jason pets Tim's cheek, his swelling lips—

Jason pumps once, again—

Again and Tim swallows him *right* down, making Jason grunt and try to push deeper, try to *bury* himself—

God, he wants Tim's *sounds*. The hums and choked-off groans aren't enough, not when he knows what he *can* have. The proof that this is as fucked up as it is, as necessary as it is—something—

Tim pulls *back*, but only for long enough to take three quick *shots* of air in through his nose—

*Down* again, and Jason lets himself pump and thrust, breaks more of Tim's spikes and then just strokes around, teasing his palm with Tim's fucking *hairstyle* until it's loose enough for a grip—

A *pull*—

An *indignant* hum that makes him laugh—

Gasp—

Thrust *faster* until he's slipping in and out of Tim's throat, and Tim's just holding himself *open* for it, holding his *breath*—

"Jesus, yes," Jason says, and his voice is too rough, too *hard*—

That hand on his sac is fucking *vicious*—

"Use your *teeth*, Tim—" And now Jason is grunting, fucking hissing, yanking hard on that fine hair and wanting to lick away the taste of Tim's fucking *product*, wanting to pull out and flip Tim onto his back, bend those legs back and fuck Tim so hard he screams again, screams this fucking *house* down—

And Tim's free hand is on Jason's thigh, scratching and petting—

Tim's cheeks are flushed red and his hips are pumping against the bed because this is a *turn-on*, this is—

So perfect—

Jason slams in *hard*, feeling Tim swallow around him, feeling him drool and shake—

And the orgasm fucking *yanks* him out of his body, leaving just a fucking *shred* of his mind to deal with the feel of Tim's want, the feel of his own pleasure—

Sweet, so sweet—

The inside of his lip is bleeding because he's biting down *just* that hard, and the tastes were always supposed to mingle, always—

Back into his body and Jason gasps, chokes back the shout and feels himself spill once more—

Twice—

Jason hauls Tim off and *up*, and it's *just* possible that there's something wrong for him loving the way blood and come mingle in his mouth, but right about now...

He doesn't *give* a rat's ass.

It only takes one pull to make Tim straddle Jason's thighs, and then—damn, he still has his body armor on, and even through the buzz he can't bring himself to strip down the rest of the way. He has to let Tim *sleep*—

And he *has* to get him off. Mm.

He pulls out of the kiss and *lifts* Tim until he's standing up on the mattress and looking down at Jason on his knees. Heh. And *how* long since he'd been in this position?

"Jay...?"

Jason laughs a little and strokes his way up Tim's thighs, squeezing them— "Spread a little more."

Tim does it—

"And I was thinking about all the ways you're *not* Bruce," and Jason reaches between Tim's legs and presses two fingers up behind his balls—

"Oh—I. More diffuse. More—I'm sorry, Jason, I—I could try—"

"I don't *want* you to be Bruce, Tim. If nothing else—heh. You smell a *lot* better than he did tonight," Jason says, leaning in and taking a *good* whiff. Fresh sweat, dick, male, and Jason thinks he can *maybe* also smell that thing which makes Tim so young—

Bruce would be able to smell it. Bruce would be able to *describe* it—

"Just wait 'til you see him in the shower, see all that muscle, all that hair and those scars—"

"I want *you*, Jason—"

"It's my *job*," and Jason grabs Tim's hips and rocks him back and forth a little, "to make you ready for as many different things as I can. And *nobody* as *thoroughly* queer as you will be able to stand up to Bruce."

"I'd do it for you," Tim says, low and fucking *earnest*—

And yeah, he would. He'd walk over a bed of nails that was in the *process* of burning—Jason shakes his head and gives Tim a nice, *long* lick, base to tip—

"Oh, Jay—"

"And what if I want to see Bruce doin' you, Tim? What if I want to see the way you move for those big, big hands?"

Tim stills all over, tensing—

"Yeah. You're going to be his partner, Tim. You're going to be the thing that keeps him from the deep black *pit* of pain and need inside of him..." Jason licks Tim again, sucks kisses along the shaft—

Tim whimpers and covers Jason's hands on his hips. "I—I. You—want that? But—"

"It's not cheating—if it's family," and Jason sucks Tim down exactly like he's been starving for it, for the dick that's still too small to do him much good in any way *but * this—

And he gets a flash of memory for that, dark and *sweaty*. Talia's toys and *all* of the ways she used them, used *him*—

("Are you thinking of him, little one? So am I.")

The scent of pussy and the *feel* of something slick and heavy on his tongue—

Silk sheets slipping around beneath his palms and the caps of his knees—

"*Jay*—"

Tim, and everything, right now, has to be boiling down to his dick in Jason's mouth, has to be *that* pleasure, *that* need, and maybe—possibly—Jason should work harder to avoid saying shit designed to break that twisty little mind *right* when they're about to fuck in one way or another, but—

"I—I—please, Jay, you have to—I'm *confused*—"

But he isn't, really. He's too smart for that, and Jason had given him all the pieces he could scrape up off the thoroughly fucking *disreputable* floor of Jason's mind—

"Unless—I. Would it be better? Would it help—I mean. If I did it *for* you—"

No, no—no. Jason pulls off—

"Oh, God, *please*—"

"You'll *do* it for yourself, Tim. Because he turns you on. *Because* he makes you need him. Because you *want* him—and nothing else matters."

"But—if it's what you want, Jay—I. What if I don't want him *enough* for that?"

Jason smiles and slips two fingers into Tim's cleft, giving that hole a nice, slow *rub*—

"Ohn. Jay, I only want *you*—"

"Then open right up again, Tim. You *used* to have room for—heh, me, Dick, *and* Bruce. That means you still *do* have room for him. I couldn't care less if you wound up fucking Dick—he's got his own thing, now, and it probably wouldn't be any good for him *to* wind up back in Gotham. But Bruce..."

"I. Partner? Partner."

"That's right. That's *just* right. Now grab your dick and *push* it into my mouth again."

Tim shudders all over and obeys, making sharp little 'oh' noises and petting Jason's mouth, his face—

Jason winks at Tim and sucks *hard*, grabbing for those hips again when Tim's knees buckle and watching Tim squeeze his eyes shut, *feeling* Tim's hands spasm against his cheeks—

"Anything—everything—oh, God, Jay, your *mouth*—"

Yeah, because he's been good at this since he was *younger* than Tim, because there was a regular who could tell right away that Jason was new and had been *all* about letting Jason *practice*, coming back again and again to teach Jason how not to gag, how to keep his teeth hidden, how to push *past* the ache in his jaw—

He'd promised himself that if he ever found the guy he'd teach him some lessons of his own, but so far, no dice.

Maybe some other boy had knifed him for his wallet or something. The world *does* correct *itself* from time to time...

And Tim is petting Jason's hair now, hands shaking just as much as the rest of his body, eyes open wide and *completely* unfocused. He's somewhere else in his head, right now. Somewhere deep under all the pleasure, under the *force* of the suction Jason's using and—

Maybe trying to hold on a little, or even claw himself back up. Jason doesn't know if he wants that or not. It has to be *better* for Tim if he can lose himself, spend a little more time *not* thinking about exactly what Jason wants for him—

And right about now it's hard to think about anything else. Bruce will go down on Tim *exactly* like it's the only thing he *can* do, and Tim *will* feel that need, know that he's causing it and *work* to fix it, ease it—

Such a *nice* boy, and it makes Jason want to fucking beat at him until he's the boy he was *tonight*—not nice at all and hard as fucking *nails*—but Bruce is going to need that nice boy—

*Jason* needs that nice boy, that hungry boy—

He's confusing the fuck out of himself, and that means it's time for him to get down to business. He squeezes Tim's hips and *makes* him start thrusting, feeling himself fucking *surge* for the way Tim's growl is almost *plaintive*, for the way Tim's grip on his hair is so gentle, so *careful*—

*More*, he tries to say, and makes Tim give it to him faster and just a *little* harder—

("Jay. Jay, you mustn't let me *hurt* you—")

But Tim knows how this works—or is maybe just that far *gone*. Either way, his hips are moving without Jason's help, and his dick is making Jason's lips numb, making his tongue want to curl for the taste of pre-come and the lingering hints of blood and his *own* come—

Yeah. *Yes*, and there's nothing he can do to stop himself from going back to playing with that hole, from pressing at the mild swelling and coating it with Tim's own sweat until Tim's gasping and *hissing*—

For the burn? For the need?

He wants to be *inside* Tim for this, wants to crawl inside that skin until he's pressed down and *concentrated* into himself—

Except that would make it even harder to avoid dealing with himself, make every corner in his mind a risk—because he'd be right around every single one of them. No matter where you go—

For now, where he *is*... is on his knees on the inspiringly big bed of a skinny, dangerous kid who is—he can own this—madly fucking in love with him to the point where even now when he's right on the edge, he's not fucking Jason's mouth as hard as he could.

Hell, even knowing that Jason *wants* it—

Jason growls around his mouthful and listens to Tim bite back a shout, watches him clench his fists at his *sides*—

Jason pulls off—

"No—oh, I—"

"Fucking *do* me, Tim. Pretend—" No, not that. Maybe never that *again*—"Pretend I *want* it—because I sure as *fuck* do."

And Tim looks down and searches Jason's face, wild-eyed and lost and yeah, still *confused*.

Jason smiles, and smiles a little wider for the four distinct streaks of blood on Tim's torso. "Pull my hair, some. *Feel* it—"

One hand in his hair and the other on the dick reaching for the *sky*—

*In*, and it's just right, hard and fucking *harder*, sac slapping Jason's chin and hips pumping *fast*.

Jason hums and *sucks*, giving into it because there's no other *option*. Fuck air and fuck politesse, this is the real deal, the *raw* deal—

Tim chokes on his own gasps—

Tim twitches and *moves* in Jason's mouth—

Tim *slams* in, shakes like he's going to fall *apart*, and comes in Jason's mouth, splashing the back of Jason's throat and making noises like he's being kicked to death by someone with a *grudge*.

Jason swallows and strokes Tim's hips, swallows and *takes*, swallows and sucks—

Until Tim yanks himself out of Jason's mouth and proceeds to wobble and sway on his feet. Jason hums and steadies him *just* enough that Tim lands the *right* way when Jason yanks him down, thighs spread around Jason's own and mouth right *there* for what has to be one of the dirtier kisses of Jason's existence. His lip is bleeding again and there's *just* enough of Tim's come still in his mouth to make it—

An experience.

It takes a moment, but Tim wraps his arms around Jason's neck and presses closer, doing a little taking of his own until Jason wants to carry him right back out the window and put him on the back of the bike again, take him *home*—

Hey, Bruce—would you have coped better if I'd just walked into the Cave one day with Tim bare ass naked and wrapped around me?

I promise—I would've only fucked with you a *little* before laying Tim down somewhere we could—

Share him.

*Hell*—

Jason grunts into the kiss and tries *not* to think about it, about how it would feel to have those hands on him *now*, to have Bruce learning him all over again, new scars and old. Tim would watch it happen, see what it *did* to Jason and... what?

Be jealous? Scared? Turned on? All of the above?

He'd *have* to pull Tim in, have to hold him down even if he didn't fight, maybe *especially* if he didn't fight. He'd maybe *tell* Tim to fight, to make Bruce *take* every inch he gets—

Nearly three years of learning every *nuance* of the ceiling above Bruce's bed, nearly four years without anything of the kind—

And now these *months* with a Bruce he could've—something.

God, there'd been a little *white* in that beard—

And what would it be like to see Tim's small hands cupping that jaw, that *clean-shaven* jaw—

Or maybe with just a little stubble—

Jason moans into Tim's mouth and gets clutched, arms and thighs, and one day, maybe, there'll be a chance to do *just* this for a little while, hold Tim's body against his own and share warmth, contact, intimacy with no judgment and only the kind of fear that belongs to something like this. Would Tim even go for that? How much *has* he twisted the kid?

Jason pulls back—

Tim winces—because his chest had *stuck* to Jason's shirt, leaving lots of little spots of blood to go with everything else that had gotten on that thing tonight. Jason frowns.

"Jay...?"

Jason squeezes Tim's hips. "I want you to disinfect those cuts three times each. No half-measures."

"Yes, of course. I—does it have to be. I mean, if you stayed. If you wanted to stay for a little while longer—"

"I do," Jason says, because it's easier than coming up with a nice, tough lie. "But you won't sleep if I do, and I need you rested."

"Because of Bruce."

And sometimes, just *sometimes*, Tim looks and sounds exactly like the kid he is. Jason's frankly not sure whether he should be beating it out of him or *not*. He compromises by squeezing Tim's hips hard. "Because *sooner* rather than later, Bruce is going to want to *test* you. And you're going to have to bring your A game for that. Better than you are with me. Better than you are on the *street*."

"Because—Gotham is his."

"Yeah. It is. Even now. I..." Jason cups the back of Tim's head and pulls him in enough that Jason can bring their foreheads together. "You can do this. Which is... heh. Well, it's a *good* thing—because I *need* you to be able to do it. Get me?"

"Yes, Jason. I—" Tim squeezes him and lets go, shifting back until he's sitting on his heels.

The fact that Jason wants to pull him close again... is just something he's going to have to live with.

He goes, feeling eyes on him for the *entirety* of his trip back to the gym but seeing no signs of... anything.


	17. Chapter 17

The next night...

Well, it's one of those moments that really let you *know* that you'd gotten yourself into a dangerous routine. He'd pulled up to *that* corner, shifting reflexively on the bike to assure himself that there was plenty of room...

And then he'd waited for Tim to melt out of the shadows and take his place.

And waited.

And *parked*, because he couldn't just fly off half-cocked, because it didn't matter that he knew *exactly* where Tim was—he had to go through the motions.

So, back to the townhouse where there was no symbol message for him on Tim's window and no sign of Tim, himself. Sleeping parents, sleeping live-in to replace the maid—and *there* was a cock-up—

No Tim.

And this drive...

What, exactly, does it say about him that this drive makes him only want to ask himself why he's going home so *early*? Is it anything he actually wants to know?

The questions run through his mind back and forth, up and down, all the way the fuck around. They're looking for a way down deep into the *meat* of his mind, the parts with neither armor nor control, and Jason thinks he'll be pretty damned fucked if he lets them in, if it turns out that he has weak spots other than the ones shaped like skinny kids with more brains than actual *sense*—

Oh, there's something to think about. Had Tim put up a fight when Bruce had told him where he was going? Or—possibly he'd just sunken deep into himself and put on the mask.

Robin.

Robin is with *Batman* right now, and that's—

Well, he's going to have to see, isn't he?

There are cameras all along this road, good enough and fast enough to pick him up. There'll *be* no surprise, and that's something else he has to deal with. He parks just beyond the hologram, watching for new traps and seeing none, and—

What did you do when you saw that the mask was still on my body, Bruce? Did it make anything easier?

Did it make you hate yourself, a little?

Jason walks in, and for a while there's nothing to hear and the kind of darkness that's just too damned familiar for comfort. There's a light, though, and he has to follow it. And maybe has to remember his *first* trip down this path, trussed up and shoved in the passenger seat of the car, thinking about the tires Bruce—the *Batman*—had made him put back on, about the way he hadn't even been able to sabotage things a little because the Batman had been watching him just that close—

Is he going to find Tim tied to a chair? Maybe hanging from a stalactite in consideration of his greater level of training?

The light gets bigger and broader, and now he can hear footsteps, quick and light—

The distinctive thump of a staff hitting the mats—

The *meatier* thump of a body—small and hard—hitting those mats—

"Again," Bruce says—in Batman's voice—and there he is, fully suited up and gesturing Tim up off the mats.

Tim's in nothing but his boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, his nice, new uniform in a pile on one of the work-tables. He looks fucking *battered*. No new bruises showing, but his movements are stiff and slow as he gets up, and Jason knows *that* frown means Tim's body is betraying him with exhaustion.

Pain.

"Fucking *time*," Jason says—

"No. Again," Bruce says, gesturing attack, and—

Tim pulls himself into a ready stance—and stands still.

Good boy. "How long has he been working you, Tim?"

"Three hours and approximately fifty-three minutes."

Which means he must've picked Tim up *right* after his parents had crashed, that Tim had been... yeah, he would've been doing katas in the suit, getting *ready*. "What are you trying to prove here, Bruce?"

Bruce brings his gesturing hand down to his side. "He's not ready."

"He's as ready as I *ever* was—"

"You—"

"And yeah, that means he *isn't* ready—for everything," Jason says, and moves up close enough to put his hand on Tim's shoulder. "He needs you."

Bruce's expression is blank and fucking *hard*—

"And take that motherfucking *cowl* off before I knock it off, Bruce."

Bruce turns to focus on Tim. "If he can't stand up to this—"

"Then you've been throwing him around for four goddamned hours—"

"Jay," Bruce says, and his voice is low, rough and fucking heavy the way—

The way it has to be, maybe. "*Off*, Bruce. You know who I am—and we both know who you are."

"Because you told the secret."

Heh. "Not quite. He already knew who you were—and knew Dick and Babs, too."

Bruce shakes his head once. "That's not—"

"I recognized Dick. Four years ago," Tim says. "He was doing the quadruple somersault he used to do at Haly's. The one only three people in the world are capable of doing. He's the only one who would've... looked like that."

Bruce grunts and *stares* at Tim—

"I swear to fucking God, Bruce, ditch that cowl *now*."

Bruce *growls* and does it, revealing pale, sweaty skin and eyes that would make fucking anyone *flinch* back. Tim tenses but remains in his ready stance—and stares right back.

"Yeah, Bruce. *That*. I can't fucking believe you thought I *would* tell anyone who didn't know—as opposed to filling in a few really fucking *crucial* blanks for someone who did."

Bruce stands straight and takes a deep breath. "He's too young—"

"I'm sorry, but I think I have to respond to that with a resounding *bullshit*, Batman," Tim says, and stands straight, as well.

Oh... yeah. Jason smiles and moves his hand to the back of Tim's neck.

"I'm older than Jason was when you took him off the street. And I'm better prepared—for Gotham and for *you*."

"I taught him the things you couldn't, Bruce—"

"Assassins' tricks."

"*Effective* tricks," Jason says, and strokes Tim's neck with his thumb. "Look at it this way: he'll *be* out there whether or not you give him any more training than he has now—"

"*Not* if I inform his parents what he's been doing."

"Bruce—"

"Oh, please," Tim says. "If you were going to *tell* on me, you would've done it already. You've certainly had ample opportunity. This is all just because your mind is still a mess from being faced with a living Jason. I sympathize—I was in a shock for at least the first *week* after he came to me. Part of me still is. But I'm *Robin*, Batman, and that's not going to change until the day *I* die—not that I haven't appreciated the chance to see assorted counter-moves tonight. I'll remember all of them."

"I've had—heh—*several* months to see that for myself," and Jason lets himself just stand there and *watch* the thoughts run through Bruce's mind.

All sorts of people would see that look as blank or neutral, but Jason knows that darkness behind Bruce's eyes is fear, that that tension running through him is all about knowledge Bruce doesn't *want*—

Which is just too damned bad. "If it helps—he was Robin in the universe *I* come from. He'd saved your ass—and the asses of all *kinds* of other people—countless times... *without* the training I've given him."

"Teach me, Batman—Bruce. Teach me how to use a cape and how to dodge crossfire. Teach me how to effectively counter you despite my size. Teach me how... to be a partner to you."

"Yeah. And if you don't do it for yourself or the city... well," and Jason raises his eyebrows. "You told me you'd do anything for me, B."

And that wild look is back in Bruce's eyes as they seem to fucking *laser* in on him. It feels like they're boring right *through* him, and Jason has to take a fucking *breath*—

Tim pushes back against Jason's hand—

And Bruce turns to look at *him*, again, frowning and searching like maybe if he just looks *hard* enough this will all start to make sense.

Tim is still giving Bruce a hard, steady look—

"He won't break and you won't chase him away. *Deal* with it."

Bruce doesn't *slump*, but there's an air of it around him, a sense that he's had *exactly* too much to take and it would only maybe take one *good* push to knock him down. And that—

Jason fucking *hates* seeing it, but if that's what gets the plan to the next stage...

"He doesn't go out again until *I* say he's ready."

Jason can feel Tim looking up at him, but... "Yeah, okay. That works—for now. But you're not going to second-guess yourself and you're *not* going to try to make him into something he *isn't*."

"You made a young boy into an assassin, Jay."

And he's so, so good at leaping out of the way of blood spatter from his knife... Jason smiles. "Then I guess it's your job to convince him not to use all of his skills all of the time. But he won't be a clone of you. He's going to *complement* you on the street, and the quicker you go with that, the quicker Robin will fly again," and Jason moves his hand from the back of Tim's neck and steps back—

"Where are you going?"

That was Bruce, but it might as *well* have been Tim, judging by the tension in his shoulders. Be steady, kid. Be *easy*. "Home. You know where to drop Tim off when you're done with him, don't you?"

"*This* is your home, Jay—"

"No, Bruce. The Jay who belonged here is still in the ground. And I've got other places to be."

Tim turns to look at him, and the plea in his eyes—

The plea in Bruce's eyes and that fucking *case*, like maybe the only part of him which ever counted was Robin—

Not fucking likely. He turns to Tim. "You know where to find me, for now."

"For. For how long?"

"Until I find an anomaly that'll get me where I need to be, Tim," Jason says, and there's a part of him that's protesting that *loudly*, but he can't listen. He can't—

He'd known it would go down something like this, and there's nothing more he can *give* Tim that Bruce can't, no way to prepare him that he hasn't, already—

He'd known it would *be* like this, and so Jason forces himself to nod to both of them and forces himself to walk away and not turn *back*.

A part of him is waiting for the tackle from behind, for a hand in his collar, for some word spoken that would make him *need* to stop—

But Tim wouldn't and Bruce maybe can't—he doesn't know.

He keeps walking.


	18. Chapter 18

He keeps his jacket stocked with everything he'll need to jump universes again and keeps an eye on his jury-rigged sensor. He has it set to make a loud and truly annoying noise when an anomaly pops off anywhere within twenty miles, and he goes back and forth between cursing himself for not figuring out how to make it better before leaving his own universe and coping with the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to *get* to any anomaly site further away than that in time.

And then there's that other fact he has to cope with—there haven't *been* any anomalies popping off in weeks, and there might not be—

No, that's a *might* not a fact, and so he stuffs it down and ignores it as best he can.

He stays in for three nights of a whole lot of nothing, and that's all he can stand before he's making a mock-up of the sensor that can run on batteries and be stored on the bike. He has no *idea* what the range is, but it has to be better than nothing.

After that, he gives himself a week of going out for a few hours every night, keeping an ear out for Bat sightings and moving around the city he knows and loves, hates and fears.

There's no one to teach, so he works quickly and efficiently and tries not to spend too much time thinking about what Tim is learning, what Bruce is teaching him and maybe teaching him *not* to know—

No, Tim *is* steady. If Bruce tries to break him down, Tim will balk hard—the same way he'd balked whenever Jason tried to push him too far too fast. Right now, he's probably taking a few laps around the Cave or maybe a run through the obstacle course so Bruce can measure his reaction time—

No, again, because Bruce would've learned all he needed to know about where Tim's physical limits were within a day or two. He's full-on training now, every night and every day.

Training with *Bruce*—

And not with him.

His *dick* has something to say about that, but he'd known not to try thinking with that head *before* he met Bruce. If he hadn't figured it out, he might've wound up catching a bad case of the feelings for any john who was a little gentle about things—or gave him a damned reach-around. And—

What's Tim doing when he gets hard?

He hadn't *been* hard for all the punishment Bruce had ditched out, but that sort of thing gets to be seriously difficult to *control* at that age—especially when you've already *got* a kink for being treated that way—

Thrown *around* that way—

And there are ways to keep his mind from getting away from him. Like so:

Break only the *right* arms as much as possible, and except for those assholes who show themselves to be *definitively* left-handed.

Work in a widening spiral, filling in the map in his head with color-coded blocks for each gang he encounters.

And—when possible—time himself, a little. If he can take *these* assholes in less than ten minutes, then he can break a few teeth. If the guns are all down and out of the way before a shot goes off, then he can try to break the ribs evenly as opposed to *merely* effectively—

And his time is up for the night, and he'd gotten a fair distance away from his *bike*—and much farther than that from his base. It's just that the night's still humming and so is *he*.

It's just that he wants more and knows exactly where he can get it—

Jason breaks the last man's nose and heads for his bike, for *home*, dammit—

And for that he has to let himself go on autopilot, has to move the way he's trained his body to move here and in no other way. If *he* was Bruce he'd be training Tim in the middle of the night, too, and—

He doesn't know. Maybe Bruce *is*.

Maybe *that's* the reason the scanner goes quiet on all things Bat every night—

Hell, he doesn't *know*, and he's going to *be* home, listening for that little alarm, waiting for his *chance*.

There are other worlds than this one, and maybe if he can ever get back to his own he can... what, exactly? Pull that older Tim aside and apologize? Promise to teach him at least some of the things *he* knows in return for forgiveness?

He doesn't *need* forgiveness, or at least he doesn't think he does. What he needs is for every Tim possible to live up to their *full* potential, to live and breathe the Mission so they can stand up when Bruce falls down, strike where Bruce won't, fight where Bruce will back away—

And he'd done that, here. Just *thinking* about the way Tim had fucking stood *up*, the way he'd pushed *back*—

Flutter—deep blue instead of black (or gold *and* black), and yeah, that's Bruce on his damned roof.

Jason parks the bike in the little garage that only looks like it's falling apart from the *outside* and moves inside the gym. If Bruce isn't in there—if he hadn't been in there *already*—then he's not worth anything, anymore—

Not worth a trained damned *Robin*—

And Bruce is moving down the inside wall with slow care, using the kind of movements which are all about trying to make someone else stay calm and together—

"Stop—fucking reading me," Jason says, and *then* gives up and laughs, because Bruce is moving across the floor toward him, Bruce is suited up and every step *feels* like a stalk—

Bruce is pushing the cowl back and *stopping*, four feet away. "He didn't tell me where you were."

Jason raises his eyebrows and watches Bruce's jaw tighten, his hands *flex*—

"I followed him last night. You trained him well in misdirection."

Last night? But he hadn't—no, focus. "He was born for it."

Bruce nods once, hands flexing again— "Why not you."

Direct, clear, and anything but simple—no, it *is* simple. It's just that it won't be easy to make Bruce see it that way. Jason shakes his head. "I can't be your partner, anymore. It's just not who I am."

Flex, release, flex *harder*—"I would like to learn you. I would... did the Bruce from your universe not... try?"

"Oh, he tried, all right. But that's over, B. I'm not *for* you."

Flex hard enough that Jason thinks he can feel it in his shoulders, his hips. On his *face*—

"And I'm not the Jason you lost. I haven't been for years, now."

"Years with... the League of Assassins. And R'as al Ghul."

"R'as hated me. Talia... didn't," Jason says, and moves a step closer, dealing with that moment he still isn't used to and maybe never will be, that indescribable *something* that hits as he realizes how little he has to look up, how much taller Bruce *isn't*. "I'm not for you."

"But Tim... is."

Jason smiles. "Good, isn't he? Kind of *scary* good in some ways..."

"He learns quickly, and listens... well."

And the thing is, Jason can *hear* Bruce's hands flexing—thanks to the fact that he's still wearing his gauntlets. A creaking scream, a sense of absolute *potential*—

"Jay. I can. You smell the same."

"So do you. Mostly. It's not going to happen."

Bruce shakes his head and sucks in a breath. "I've seen his body. I've touched his scars. Your scars."

And? Jason raises his eyebrows again.

"Was that something the Bruce from your universe..." Bruce frowns and shakes his head again, and yeah, *not* a surprise that he can't even get that thought out—

("I never managed to convince Bruce of how distinguished he would look with a scar on his cheek, perhaps one near his eye... ah, little one, is that for me?")

"Jay?"

Jason smiles a little. "A memory. I'd like to say that I don't have to tell you how Talia's mind worked, but that's not *quite* true, is it?"

Bruce closes his eyes—just for a moment. When he opens them, they're clear and only curious—

No, they're not 'only' anything, because they're Bruce's eyes and that means... a lot. Jason swallows—

"Jay—"

"No, Bruce."

Pain, sharp and obvious, *deep*—"Did you love her?"

"She did a damned good job of keeping that from ever being an issue. I was her possession and sometimes her pet—not her lover."

If anything, that makes the pain in Bruce's eyes *worse*, which—

"Bruce, you should... this is my home, here, and it's time for me to crash—"

"A little. A little longer," Bruce says, resting his hand on Jason's shoulder and squeezing *lightly*. "I never thought I'd see you like this. I regret never having the chance to see you grow. You are... eighteen?"

"Nineteen."

Bruce nods. "The boy—"

"Tim."

"He cares for you deeply, Jay. He... feels your loss."

"I'm not *gone*, yet."

Bruce squeezes Jason's shoulder again. "You've come to know him. You... should know that that's not enough."

"And how do you know it *isn't*? Or am I supposed to believe you *have* been paying as much attention to him as you should?" Jason shakes his head and brushes Bruce's hand off his shoulder. "I already knew that it would *take* time, B. You weren't ready for him. You aren't ready for him, *yet*—"

"But you knew that I would be, and I have not... you've given me a gift, Jay. I'm not capable of ignoring such a thing—"

"His name is *Tim*. I—look, Bruce, if you're seriously trying to get me to stay put for *his* sake—"

"I would say and do anything to make you stay, Jason."

Jason, not Jay, and that means he should be paying attention—

He already *is* paying attention. It feels like his *skin* is paying attention—

And why hadn't Tim come to him? If he was right there, if he *wanted*—

And pacing isn't going to do him any good. He moves back to Bruce—fucking *noting* that he hadn't shifted from his spot. Fucking *Bruce*. "He's your partner now, Bruce. You have to give him what he needs, just as he has to give you what *you* need—"

"And when what we need is you?"

"You don't even *know* me, Bruce. These things that are the same, these things you remember—"

"Everything, Jay. Have you let him call you that?"

"*Yes*—"

"Because he's been your lover," Bruce says, nodding to himself and looking thoughtful, curious, *interested* in ways that Jason really wants to *protect* Tim from—

If he can't protect himself. Jason laughs a little, choking it off when it's too cracked for him to deal with. "Yeah, you can call it that. He's—good. Perfect in more ways than I can count. If you train him right, if you give up just a *little* of yourself—"

"He's yours."

His. *All* his, and he knows that, but— "That's the thing about him, Bruce—he can be a real *generous* kid."

"I—" Bruce closes his mouth and frowns. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, Jay. He watched me like the predator you shaped him into. He trains as though the Mission is the only thing he cares about—"

"*Go* with that—"

"And when he comes here, his face softens and the tension leaves his body. And he watches, quietly, from the roof. The loft is where you sleep."

When he sleeps. Jason pushes a hand back through his hair and watches Bruce track the motion, *take* it for himself exactly like he can't help doing it, wanting it—

"Jay. You can do good work here. You've been *doing* good work here. I—I don't know why you came—"

"For Tim. For *you*—and for this world. And... yeah, maybe for me, too. I saw a chance to make a real difference and I took it. It's up to you guys, now—"

"Stay," Bruce says, and takes a step—*just* a step—closer. And there's no one *but* Bruce to see if he hesitates before stepping back—

*When* he hesitates—

"When I saw the way you moved, I paused within myself for the familiarities. I tried to focus on the *differences*, but it was difficult. I was not myself—no. I was *only* myself, and none of the things I've tried to make myself into over the years. I can be a better man, Jay. I know that I've. He *must* have failed you the way I failed the Jason from this world, but... we have another chance."

("He brought me out of myself, Jay. He forced me to realize that the world hadn't ended because of my own pain and grief—")

"Tim—"

"Tim, yes. I wonder—would we notice if he were watching us now? I dropped him off a block from his parents' home, but does he truly have any reason to stay there? I'm sure he must have told lies in order to protect his ability to train with you and now with me, but how many, do you think, were truly necessary?"

Left fucking *field*—but not, really. "You probably know the Drakes about as well as I do," Jason says, *hedges* because—why? Who is he protecting right now? Tim *isn't* supposed to be hiding anything from Bruce, and... could this help?

And Bruce nods as if Jason had answered the question. "Yes, I know them. And I find myself wondering if there had ever been a chance to... steer them, perhaps. If not to warn them about what their son could become, given just the *right* interested third party."

*Humor* in Bruce's voice... but Jason has to admit he sees the joke. "Fuckin' A, Bruce. You have what you need. Just let him in."

"You took away his awe and a great deal of his fear. My only choice, with him, is to either be myself or reject him entirely—and you've both made it abundantly clear that the latter is no option, at all."

Jason nods—dodges and blocks, but Bruce was only reaching for his face.

And he doesn't put his hand down.

Jason sighs and takes Bruce's hand in his own, *itching* inside at the feel of Bruce's fingers and *pushing* the hand back down—

Bruce *grips* Jason's hand and takes a step—the last step—closer. "You presented him to me as a partner, but it's you I think of. Dream of. It hasn't been so long that you don't remember the way the two of us worked together—"

"And the way we fought *and* the way we fucked. It's—it's years for me, Bruce—"

"Not," Bruce says, leaning in until he's close enough that Jason can taste the coffee on his breath, smell the armor— "For me."

"Bruce—"

"Show me who you are now, Jason. Give me that chance the way you gave it to Tim. Show me the man who couldn't resist marking that body, the man who could *teach* love to a boy profoundly lacking in same—"

"He *has*—more than enough love. He's built for that, too, Bruce. He—you don't know how much he can *give*—given half a chance—"

"I would give him everything if I thought it would make you happy. He's a beautiful boy, brilliant and strong, dedicated..." Bruce smiles. "It would not take much for me to give—and take—for myself."

And Jason—there's no holding back that shiver, just as, apparently, there's no stepping *back*, no way to move and no way to fight, but it's all right, because it's Bruce. The best man in the world and the only man to ever love him just the way he wanted, just the way he *feared*—

"*Is* that what you want? If so, I'm afraid Tim will take some measure of convincing—"

"He knows he's for you. I prepared him, told him everything, everything about you—"

"Then tell him this, too," Bruce says, and—

The kiss is too soft, too *cautious*—

And then it's nothing of the kind, either because of the noise Jason couldn't hold back or because Bruce couldn't wait even *that* long, couldn't stop himself—

The grip Bruce has on his hand is *iron*, but Jason knows at least fifteen ways around it, and if he just lists them in his mind—

He can keep kissing, keep *having*, and he thinks about Bruce in the rain, thinks about the way Bruce had come to him and never tried to touch, never tried *this*—

And hell, maybe he should've if it makes Jason give it up like this, makes Jason *reach* for more—

Gauntlet on his face, and he knows that texturing, knows just how to prepare himself for the feel of it pushing into his hair—

For the feel of several different hairs being yanked *out* because Bruce is gripping his hair, pulling Jason *in*, and he could ask if this is how Bruce plans on starting to be a better man, if this is the *plan*—

Bruce groans and lets go of Jason's hand, wrapping his arm around Jason's waist and pulling Jason's whole *body* in until they're pressed together, swaying together on the edge of a fall that would go nowhere good, that would feel fucking *fantastic*—

*Are* you watching this, Tim? Are you flying below our radar right now? You need to *sleep*, kid, need to let the grown-ups be *fuckups*—

Break, only it doesn't feel like one, doesn't *count* as one because Bruce is nuzzling him, dragging his mouth against Jason's own, against his cheek to his ear—

"Make love with me. It only has to be for tonight, it—it can be anything you want—"

"*Liar*—"

"*Yes*," and Bruce kisses his way back to Jason's mouth, kisses him hard and starts pushing, too. It's a matter of walk or fall *down*—

No, it *isn't*—

It is, and his body knows they're heading for the stairs, for the loft—they'll *have* to stop kissing to walk up the stairs—

They're *not* going up the fucking *stairs*, and somehow *enough* of his body was paying attention that he manages to push Bruce back—

"Jay—"

"*No*. And I know that's not a word you're used to hearing from me—"

"Our bed is empty—"

"*Your* bed—"

"I *love* you, Jay—"

"You still. Don't. Know me," Jason says, and fucking takes a *breath*. His mouth is tingling from the kiss but *not* from stubble— "You shaved before you came here."

"Assiduously," Bruce says, and his hands are clenched into fists, the muscles of his arms fucking *corded* with tense muscle—

Jason snorts. "This isn't a fucking *date*, Bruce—"

"I've missed the sound of your curses. I promised—I promised myself that if I could ever hear your voice again it wouldn't matter what you were saying—"

"Even if it was 'no, fuck off?'"

"Even then. I." Bruce starts pulling off his gauntlets—

"Don't *do* that—"

"It's only. If I could touch your skin, Jay. Feel your warmth. I need." Bruce grits his teeth and looks *down*—

"Don't do that, either—fuck, this is a mess."

"It doesn't have to be, Jay. It can be. I know you can *feel* it, that what's between us—"

"It was never between *us*. I—fine, take your gauntlet off," Jason says, stepping close again—

Into the lion's fucking *den*—

And Bruce's hand on his face is warm and soft with sweat, smelling of the plastics in the gauntlet and making Jason feel oh, call it *fifteen* years old, wound up so tight he couldn't see straight and ready to fucking *run*—"Are you done?"

"Never," Bruce says, but takes his hand back. "Tell me how you're different, other than the age and experience which makes you even more beautiful than you used to be—"

"Experience. I... you know I was trained by assassins."

"Yes, and I find it interesting that the block you used earlier was one you learned from me... as opposed to the deadlier ones I know you know."

"I've killed people, Bruce. And I'm going to kill again. If the Joker so much as sets *foot* outside Arkham while I'm here, he's a dead man. If Two-Face gets out? Same deal."

Bruce *doesn't* frown, but it's all over his face just the same, all over *him*.

"And no, it's not revenge—or not *just* revenge. I got over that in my world—"

"Where you killed them."

"Heh. *No*, actually. I just made a few heads roll in the gangs that were choking the city dead. I wasn't ready to do anything else. I was *too* angry and too fucked up over *you*," Jason says, and *shows* his hands. "I'm all better now."

"Jay..." Bruce shakes his head. "Murders solve nothing—"

"You don't think so? What do you think you'd be doing *right* now if someone—and I know it can't be you—had taken out the Joker?"

"Stalking your mother."

Jason—chokes. There's no other word for it, because... yeah. "Heh, okay, there's *that*. But I never could've stayed with her, Bruce. Even if she *hadn't* gotten the chance to hang me out to dry for the Joker's goons. She was bad fucking news, *just* like my two-bit father, and you would've wound up putting her away sooner or later. But my point..." Jason shakes his head. "I know you see it. There's a difference between risking your life every damned night for this city and being an *idiot*. The prisons and hospitals can't handle people like that, and they've proved that over and over again."

"I can't. I can't let you kill here, Jason."

"'Jason' for that, too, hunh? Well, Bruce, you can ride my ass every second until I leave or you can do what you do best. And let me—and Tim—do the same."

This time, the frown makes it onto Bruce's face. "Is that what you call being 'complementary,' Jay? Robin isn't *meant* for death."

"But he's pretty fucking good at it, just the same. No, don't go second-guessing Tim now. He *hasn't* used any of the nasty little things I made sure he learned *well* to kill anyone—yet. But it's there in him, and he will *do* the necessary thing—even when you can't."

"Jay... do you honestly think he'd do anything of the kind if it wasn't to please you?"

And that—was supposed to be a hit. But it isn't. "Yeah, I do. Maybe if you'd gotten to him a little earlier, taken a look *behind* you one of the *countless* times he was following you around and snapping his little pictures—he's pretty damned good at that, by the way. Make sure you take him to *all* the crime scenes—well, you didn't and I *did*. He knows the score, and no one and nothing can take that away from him. Not even me."

"It's always been there, this anger in you—"

"No, Bruce. Look at me. Take a good, *long* look at me, and then ask yourself if it's *really* anger," Jason says, and brings Bruce's hand back to his face so Bruce can tilt his chin up and fucking *loom* the way that *always* brought anger to the surface.

But that was back in the days when he was helpless, when there was nothing he could do or say to change anything, to stop Bruce, to fucking make him keep *going*. Now...

Well, he might not be able to do anything about all those *other* emotions roiling in him until he wants to be *sick*, but. He's not angry, at all.

"Jay..." 

Jason pulls back and spreads his hands. "Like I said—you don't know me, anymore, Bruce. It would be—heh—*wrong* for us to pretend that you *do*."

And the look on his face says Bruce is fucking thinking *thoughts*, like maybe he's remembering all those times when they'd fought like animals right up until Bruce threw and *pinned* him—and they could do *other* things like animals.

"I don't wanna fight you, either—but I will if I have to, B."

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and *snaps* his hands into fists. For a moment he only stands there, holding onto his control by a fucking *thread*...

"Go to your Robin, Bruce. Let *him* take care of you."

"I can't—he's so." And the expression on Bruce's face is more of a grimace than a smile, but that doesn't mean there's no humor in it when he turns it on Jason. "He doesn't—"

"Want you. Yet. Yeah, I hear you," Jason says, splaying his hand on the Bat and giving Bruce a push. "Make him want you. Show him everything running through you—his parents could sleep through a bombing raid, by the way—and make him *know* you. He won't last."

"And you know that because of the way he was in your universe?"

Jason waves a hand. "I know that because of the way that *Bruce* was about him. What he said Tim *did* for him."

"The two of you... still spoke?"

And what, exactly, is Jason supposed to do with the *hope* in Bruce's voice? "Yeah. Whether or not I wanted to."

"Let me kiss you again."

Not and have you still get *out* of here. "No, Bruce. Go."

"I'll come back," he says, soft and gentle and the kind of threat Jason can do nothing about, because—

"I know."

And Bruce pulls his cowl back on and goes. Jason gives it twenty minutes, time enough for Tim to melt out of whatever shadows he's found for himself and fucking *come* to him—

No dice.

Jason strips, showers, beats off in the tub and doesn't make a fucking sound, doesn't cry out, doesn't fucking—

Anything.

But when he puts himself to sleep, he does it with ice-cold blue eyes on him in the dark. The kind of eyes you can never get away from, that see right straight through to your dirty little heart.

Now just who those eyes *belong* to... is a question for another day.


	19. Chapter 19

The next night—

He's halfway out of his armor when the shadows spit Tim out. He looks exhausted and fucking *freaked*, and—shit. "Okay, so I really need to do something about security."

Tim blinks, shifts on his feet— "Yes, you really do. Um. Is it all right? That I'm here?"

"I told you—" Except for how he really *didn't*. Whoops. "Yeah, it's fine," Jason says, and finishes getting down to his boxer briefs before closing the distance between them and starting to push Tim toward the stairs—

Bruce—

"*Is* it Bruce?"

"Very much so. I—he came to see me last night. He said... you told him to?"

"Well, it was that or have sex with him, and I *treasure* my hard-won sanity, kid—Tim."

Tim pauses halfway up the stairs. "You can call me 'kid' sometimes, Jay. I mean—I know that you're not always using it to treat me like something you can't quite scrape off your shoe."

"You could just say 'dog shit.'"

"I've been trying to parcel my questionable language out. It's all about practice. Fucker."

Jason snickers and gives Tim another push. "Gettin' there, gettin' there."

"I do try," Tim says, and *scans* the loft.

"I *didn't* fuck him, Tim."

"I—reflex? Both you and Bruce have been quite clear about my developing my observational abilities."

"Uh, huh, well—it's a natural talent in you. *Innate*—right up there with the stalking," Jason says, and lets himself fall on the bed. And raises his eyebrows.

Tim scans *him*—and smiles. He strips down *quickly*—not even pausing for his boxer briefs—and crawls onto the bed.

Seeing the scars on his chest... they're still *angry*-looking, but it's clear that a bandage would've been superfluous. Jason traces the skin around them. "It's good that you heal fast."

"I do wonder about situational nudity and explanations I'd have to make."

"I trust you to come up with some doozies," and Jason sits up enough to grab Tim by the hips and settle him over his own hips. "You don't have to ask. Just come—when you're not training."

"I—he does take up quite a lot of time," Tim says, and raises his own eyebrow—

Jason nods, and Tim strokes his chest—no. Tim gives himself over to the *art* of stroking Jason's chest, firm and hard enough that Jason can feel every last one of those calluses and know that they—mostly—belong to him. And—

He was going to say something—

Something. "Look at it this way, Tim—by rights? You should be living in the manor, training before school, coming right home to train *more*. Training all day weekends and holidays... you know what I'm saying."

"Mm—I. Really do. My mother congratulated me for making such good friends this year. My father—rather awkwardly—stuttered and stammered out a question which may or may not have boiled down to whether or not any of my friends were *more* than friends," Tim says, and smiles like the vicious little predator he is. "Ives—my closest friend—believes that there's a young Puerto Rican woman who has been taking up my time, and has sworn to cover for me to the death."

"You got it all covered, then," Jason says, and folds his hands behind his head. "Puerto Rican? Not Haitian? Pakistani?"

"I'm fairly fluent in Spanish, already."

"Heh. Your little plot thickens."

"I do my best. I wish... I want more. I want you to train me, *too*, Jay. There's so much you haven't taught me—"

"*Most* of which Bruce'll cover. You *still* need your rest, Tim."

Tim frowns, little mouth pressing in on itself and making Jason's dick pay a little more attention— "Oh." Tim grinds down against him, working his hips like a—

No, not a pro. Like someone *dedicated*. Maybe one of those temple prostitutes he'd read about a lifetime ago. Certainly, Tim is starting to make him feel religious again—but. He wouldn't have come if Bruce hadn't freaked him out. "Tell me what Bruce said."

"He—talked about you, mostly. How much he loved you, how he felt something quote 'almost entirely *unlike* lust' the first time he saw your face. Something 'brighter, stronger.'"

Jason shakes his head. "*Pervert*."

"He described it the way people describe religious experiences. Oh, he—planted two tracers on me that I've found. Was it wrong to take them off?"

"Let him work for it. Go on."

"Well, at first he was sort of looming over my bed, seeming to take every shadow in the room for his own—"

"It's kind of his shtick."

"Mm. I told him he could sit down if he wanted to, and you know—it really is extremely odd to watch a large man sweep a cape out of the way to sit down—I'm babbling."

Jason laughs a little and bounces Tim on his hips. "Yeah, but it's cute. Keep going."

"I—cute? Hm. All right. He told me about the months he spent training you, only if I went just by what he was saying, they were months *you* spent training while he stared at your nubile—he didn't actually *use* that word, but there was a hint of it just the same—"

"Uh, huh?"

"Well, there was a lot of staring. And he talked about wanting to lick the arch of your foot, the back of your knee, talked about wanting to spread you and taste your *musk*..." Tim shakes his head. "I told him I could understand the urge, and then he started talking about us, about how he wants to know everything we've done, how he's dreamed of it and wondered—and about how he'd never actually ask. I. Would it. Do you think it would *help* anything if I... came clean, as it were?"

As it were. Jason laughs just a *bit* more and *arches* under Tim, lifting him up just a little bit—

"Oh, that feels very—Jay, what would you *like*, tonight? Because I've wanted—everything."

"One question at a time—yeah, I think it *will* help if you tell him everything, but you should definitely wait until you're ready for things to move to the next level."

"Next—" Tim frowns again. "He treated me like—like his *confessor*. Everything was love and fear, sin and hunger... I felt like I should have studied Catholicism."

Jason waggles his head a little. "Can't hurt."

"I—" Tim's frown cracks right down the middle and he laughs, breathless and quiet, and—

Yeah. Jason moves one hand from under his head and rests it on Tim's chest, splaying it a little and just giving himself a moment to feel his heartbeat, steady, even, and just a little faster than it would be if they weren't just *one* pair of boxer briefs from being naked. Poor fucking planning on *his* part.

"Jay...?"

"Yeah?"

"I like it. When you make me laugh," Tim says, and suddenly his eyes are wide and soft and focused on him.

It makes Jason mentally run through everything in the pockets of his jacket and it makes him want to burn the thing to ash while the fire throws crazy shadows on Tim's back. "Well, I like *making* you laugh—but I meant it. If you want to know Bruce, it really *wouldn't* hurt to read up on abnormal psychology, religion, philosophy, superhero comics... everything you can get your hands on, really, because *all* of that went in to making him who he is."

Tim nods seriously. "All right. I'll—keep that in mind. Anyway, after all of that, he started telling me about his nightmares—"

"And giving you a few *new* ones, I'd bet?"

"*Yes*, actually. He made me—well, no, he *asked* me to tell him about my own, and I really couldn't... well, there wasn't any *real* choice there, though I can't really put my finger on *why*—"

"Because he's Bruce. That's the only answer you really need, kid," and Jason strokes the center line of Tim's chest with two fingers, down and up and down again.

"Well—certainly, that's *an* answer."

Jason grins. "What else did you tell him? Other than your nightmares, that is."

"I—well. I told him about my fantasies of Robin when I was younger, about getting to see Robin up close, and watch my hand get swallowed in a—green—gauntlet, or to feel Robin lifting me up high... um." Tim looks down and gives Jason his first blush of the night.

Jason *taps* Tim's chest before dragging his fingers back down to his navel, and tries not to... well, he *can* imagine it. Tim being even smaller than he is, now, and himself maybe being a little bit bigger than he ever actually got in the suit. Lifting the kid up so he can get a *good* view of the city while they stand on some rooftop... "Everyone needs a hero sometime."

Tim looks at him from under his lashes, dark and *serious*—"Who's yours?"

"Heh. Myself. And yeah, that *does* kinda fail at the whole 'keeping the night monsters away' thing from time to time."

Tim nods. "*Is* Bruce supposed to be my hero?"

Yes. No. Maybe. "Sort of? He's supposed to be your partner, but you already know there's more to that than just you having each other's backs out there."

Another nod. "He said... he said that even you were afraid of him sometimes, and that he hated that more than almost anything. The only thing worse, he said, was when you loved him as more than a man."

Jason grins and shakes his head. "Fucking Bruce. Well, yeah, he was right, and yeah, that was fucked up. I was *way* too young for him—young in ways *you're* not. Which isn't to say you're *not* young, just that it's different."

"I think... I think it's possible that I'll understand that. At some point."

"Mm-hm. Just keep it in mind until you do. Anyway—Bruce is the best at what he does. And he does a *lot* of things. It's hard not to... oh, put him on a pedestal, I guess. I've done what I can to protect you from that, but it's not like I could always—or even *often*—protect myself."

"Did you... I know you said the two of you didn't have sex, but—"

"We kissed. And came *real* close to coming up these stairs and fucking like crazy, because I could feel him, and he could feel me, and there's all that *history* there. And because when he wants to, Bruce can *talk* anyone into bed."

"He's... seductive."

Jason raises his eyebrows again. "You tellin' me you *didn't* feel it?"

"I—more than I wanted to. A great *deal* more. He was so close, but he still made my bed feel huge and... inconvenient, I suppose. I could tell that he wanted—something."

"Something...?"

"He wanted me to be someone I'm *not*—"

"Try again."

"Jay—"

Jason taps Tim's chest again before dragging his fingers up over that long throat, along Tim's jaw, up over his chin—he *dips* his fingers into Tim's mouth just long enough to get the tips wet. "Try. Again."

"I—all right. He wanted to be close to someone. To be heard and understood and maybe—I. Held."

Jason nods. "And?"

"And he gave me the *distinct* impression that if I tried anything of the kind I'd wind up fucked through the mattress."

Jason snickers. "Yeah, he's special like that. But there'll be times when you can *just* be there for him. A hand on his shoulder, or maybe in one of his own. A good, long eye-to-eye *look*." Jason waves his hand. "Something like that."

"That would be... a lot more comfortable."

"You think so, kid? Well, I don't know. We're not the same person, so maybe it *would* be like that for you. Batman needs Bruce to live. *Bruce* needs... one whole hell of a lot. And you're more than strong enough to give it to him."

And Tim nods like Jason had given him an order, and then blinks—shifts. Internally—he can see it in Tim's eyes—*and* externally, grinding his hips against Jason's own and getting harder *quickly*.

"What do *you* want?"

"For you to fuck me, Jay. I—I've been using the toy. And a bigger one—well, that's. I've only used the bigger one twice, but—"

"But you're ready for me, I hear you."

"Can I—I would just like to state for the record that it was extremely disturbing to have Bruce slip through my window *exactly* five minutes after I put the toy *away*."

Jason snickers again. "Yeah, get used to that. It's Bruceish for 'I'm being polite.'"

"And maybe for 'I watched the *whole* thing,' Jay?"

"*Hell*, yeah. The sheer *number* of times he managed to show up in my bedroom fucking *seconds* after I came down from the afterglow... well. There are a *lot* of reasons I never brought anyone home."

"You had... girlfriends?"

"I had girls who were friendly acquaintances—with benefits. It didn't take all that long before Bruce was fucking me too regularly for me to spread it around. As it *were*, heh." And Jason reaches for the slick, thinks about opening it up... hm. "Show me how you slick yourself."

"Oh. I—all right. I'm usually um. On my back."

"Mi bed es su bed, Tim."

Tim gives him one of those sharply *bright* smiles for that, brief and just a little stunning, so it takes Jason a moment to sit up after Tim shifts off him and lies down with his head toward the foot of the bed.

Making things easy for him again, and... yeah. Tim slicks his fingers and bends his knees back to his chest before reaching and pushing in with two. No pause or hesitation, just *in*.

And then he's twisting his fingers back and forth, concentration-line deep on his forehead, lower lip held between his teeth...

"Yeah, that's good. Fuck yourself a little."

Tim nods and does it, gasping for the first deep push and then going silent, concentrating *harder*...

Jason strokes Tim's shins and watches the show, noting that Tim gives himself a *little* twist even for this and wondering if he'd learned that from *him*. It's a little too scary to think about and it's fucking *hot* to watch. Just—

Bent up little boy, all muscle and bone and *hunger*. Dick reaching for the sky and sac hanging down, asking for all *kinds* of things. Mm.

Jason leans in and takes Tim's sac into his mouth, letting himself feel full, feel powerful and a little strange—

"*Jay*—oh. If you. If you—suck?"

And he's tempted to pull off and make Tim *really* ask for it, but it's a lot *more* tempting just to do it, stroking down to feel Tim's hand so he can catch the rhythm of that fuck, so he can get a little slick, *too*—

"Oh. So *good*. God, I—I won't last if you do that, but please don't stop, yet, please—"

Anything you want, kid, especially if it's more of this, more of the feel of hair just a little thicker than what's on Tim's head, straight and fuzzy, ticklish and scratchy. Jason hums—

Tim cries out and starts fucking himself harder. *Not* faster, and Jason promises himself that he'll remember that little detail for sometime when he has a little control and a lot of time to just *give* it to Tim, watch him writhe and flush, twist on his dick like it's spearing him instead of just fucking—

And it's a *good* idea to stop stroking Tim's working hand and *start* stroking the edges of Tim's hole, feeling the stretch he plans to make worse, better—

"Oh, *yes*, I—God, Jay, I've wanted—I want you, always *want* you—"

And he's been *such* a good boy, giving Bruce what he needs and not flinching, not pausing, and only holding back as much as he *had* to.

"Can't. I can't imagine being with anyone else. I—oh, God—"

No, not that, and letting Tim's sac slip from his mouth feels like a tragedy right up until he gets his tongue on the underside of Tim's dick, right until he's licking up to where it's slick, hot, *wet* for him.

And he *had* something to say, but it's better to just suck the head into his mouth and give it to Tim in those same pulses, take it *from* him and paint his tongue with Tim's pre-come, which is just a little sweeter than his actual come, milder...

Yeah, and there's always *another* reminder of Tim's age, something else to keep him from ever forgetting what he's doing and *who* he's doing it with—

"Jay, *please*, in me, I need you—"

Jay pulls off and lunges in for a kiss, nice and hard, nice and *messy*, and Tim's *still* fucking himself, but it's a little faster now, *less* hard—hunh. "Are you dialing it back because it feels good or because you're losing a little control?"

"Ah—the latter. Usually I try—I mean. I've gotten a little spoiled. With the toys."

Mm. "You usually prepare yourself *with* the smaller toy, don't you?"

Tim nods and searches Jason, narrows his eyes and bites his lip again—

"I think I want to make you make *just* that face, kid..."

Tim laughs. "It *won't* be difficult, I—ah. Assure you."

"Heh. Pull out."

Tim does and tries to pull his knees back even *closer* to his chest—

"Relax, feet down."

"All right—"

"And... think about Bruce doing this to you. *Giving* this to you."

"Oh—Jesus, Jay, that's really. Um. Ah?"

Jason grins, slicks his fingers, and—mm. Two go in *slow*, but without *too* much difficulty, making Tim arch and *squeeze* his eyes shut. "Look at you takin' it like you were made for this—"

"I *was*. Or—it feels that way, it—oh, God, Jason, I've *missed* you—"

"Feeling's mutual, kid. Now be a good boy and think about Bruce's big hands, long fingers..."

"I—he's. He wants *you*, Jay—"

"Yeah, he does. But he *told* me that it wouldn't be hard to think of you that way, that he already *has*... just a little."

"He—oh, God. I—I feel like running *away*—"

"And that was *before* that little talk the two of you had. Tell me—when he was training you today—"

"S-suited up. No sign of *Bruce*—oh *fuck*—"

Jason eases the crook of his fingers and pushes in just a little *deeper*—

"Jay, *please*—"

"You know what that means, don't you?"

"It seems—it would be... reasonable. For him to want to impose distance. After last night."

Jason *rocks* his fingers a little. "Just right, freakboy o' mine. But you could still feel him, couldn't you? Watching you from behind the cowl?"

"Watching—*waiting*, I—I have to *move*, Jay—"

"Then do it. Show me. Show *Bruce*—"

Tim tilts his head back and *braces* his feet, working himself on Jason's fingers and panting, *grunting*—

"God *damn*, you're a good boy. He's going to love doing this to you. Making you come *just* like this—"

"Want—want *you* to come, need you to come—"

"You think I won't?" And Jason grabs one of Tim's ankles and brings Tim's foot to his crotch. "Feel that?"

"Oh. *Jay*, I—I miss sucking you, too. I want—" And Tim works the pads of his foot against Jason's shaft, a good *and* frustrating touch—

"Oh, now he's gonna want to lick *your* foot."

"Jesus, fuck—Jay, *fuck* me, please fuck me—"

"Mm. Now *there's* a good idea, but—ask Bruce."

"I—what?" Tim opens his eyes and they're fuzzed, unfocused...

Jason licks his lips. "Call his name for me. Tell *him* what you want."

"Bruce. I. Fuck me?"

"Nuh-uh. *Give* it to him, Tim. Give it *up*," and Jason starts fucking Tim slowly. *Gently*.

"No—fuck. Please, please, Bruce, I want—fuck me, fuck me *faster*."

God. *Right* to his dick, and he's still only *faking* it. "Yeah, like that. But *more*."

"*Bruce*, I—if you're watching this, if you're seeing this—I'd let you, I want you, you—you can *have* me—"

"*Yes*, Tim, *more*—"

"Bruce, *please*, I need—he won't fuck me, he won't—I need it so badly, I promise I'll behave, fucking *obey*—"

"Now don't go *too* far," and the smile on Jason's face feels as wet and hungry as the head of his dick, which *could* be somewhere much warmer, tighter— "Tell him *how* you want it."

"*Hard*, Bruce. Make me scream. Make me *hoarse*, and I—I'll be yours, for a little while—Jay, please, I don't—it's too much—"

"It is *not*—"

"But I think he could *be* listening, Jay, or watching—I saw, or thought I saw, thought I *felt*—"

"Yeah, he *followed* you here, before. But it *could* just be your paranoia talking," Jason says, and cups Tim's hip with his free hand. "Tell me you're ready."

"I'm *ready*—"

"Then fucking *take* it." And the motion of his own hand feels brutal, like the *real* 'too much' in this room, but Tim just plants his feet again and gives it *right* back, shouting and clutching at the sheets—

Tossing his head and *clenching* around him, shuddering—

Arching up *high* and slamming back down to the bed before shouting *again*, like maybe the *impact* forced it out of him.

And—he's slick *enough.

"Brace yourself," Jason says and pulls out as slowly as he can manage, which is still much too fast—

"*Jay*—"

"Come *here*," and Tim is trying to help, but it's still more Jason's pulling that gets Tim into his lap than anything else. Face to face won't give quite as much *depth*, but—yeah, he wants this. He *owes* this. "Get my dick in you."

"*Fuck*, yes," Tim says, reaching down and fumbling a little before he gets Jason all lined up—

And Tim *sits* on Jason's dick, taking it in as deep as it will go and letting his eyes roll back in his head.

Beautiful. Fucking *gorgeous*, and knowing that Tim would do anything for him is nothing against the feel of *this*, against the tight heat and the pulse he can feel, the clench that makes him grunt—

"You look *so* good on my dick," and Jason cups Tim's hips, squeezes them... "And you feel even better. Look at me."

Tim nods and does it, eyes tracking wild before focusing *hard*.

Jason grins and bucks a little, *fucks* a little—

"Oh, *more*—"

"You got it." And lifting Tim is just as easy as it should be, as it *never* should be—

So fucking *small*—

So *perfect* when he drags Tim down again and Tim groans, burying his face against Jason's throat, breathing damp and hot—

The fever of this—

The *pleasure*, and the way it refuses to have anything to do with right or wrong, old or young—no. He has to deal with the fact that at least *part* of him thinks it's better that Tim's *just* this young, that he's not Robin *yet*. Not Bruce's yet.

And maybe—

Maybe by the *look* on Tim's face, the need and the *wonder*—

Never Bruce's?

"Ride me," Jason says, and lets go of Tim's hips to stroke his hair, still damp from the shower he'd taken after Bruce had dropped him off... night training, and it's *good* for the Robin he'll be and *bad* for—

No, the kid in Tim *needs* this, and Jason's never going to let himself forget that. He can't *possibly*—

"God, so *tight*."

"I—hnn. I worry, a little, about... losing that."

Jason laughs—and groans for the feel of things moving inside him, for the shudder at the *base* of his dick. "Maybe—*maybe*—if Bruce starts fucking you daily. Which he won't, because he's going to want to taste you all the time... and *you're* going to want that dick in your mouth."

"Still. I. Still haven't seen it. Seen *him*."

"Then I'll have to tell him to stop being a *tease*. Can you give me faster?"

"Yes, I—" Tim frowns and bites his lip again, settling his hands on Jason's shoulders—

"Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, fuck, that's incredible, perfect..."

Tim smiles and starts clenching around him for every downstroke—

"Oh, *good* boy. Mm, you were *born* to be fucked, kid."

"I think—oh, that. Angle. I can't really—"

"Heh, relax," Jason says, grabbing Tim's shoulders and making him lean back a little while he rocks and grinds, pushes and fucking *shoves*—

"*God*, I—am really not relaxed. At all."

"Guess I just need to *try* harder," and Tim gives him a hot little cry for every thrust, gripping Jason's forearms and still *trying* to give it back to Jason—

"So good, so—no, I want you riding me, again. As fast and as hard as you can."

"Y-yes. Jay—" And Tim shakes his head and wraps his arms around Jason's neck, pushes his *face* against Jason's neck—

And the only thing Jason can do is grunt for it, *buck* for it, because Tim is riding him like pain is something that happens to other people—

Tim is licking him, dragging his mouth—

"Yeah, *bite* me—*fuck*, sharp little teeth, sweet little ass, gotta—" Jason shakes his head and strokes Tim's back, finding the light scars with his fingertips and wanting more, *needing* more even though the first time Tim comes home with a scar ruining the lines of the scars Jason has given him—

No, he won't *be* here, and—what the hell does 'home' mean, anyway?

Can't—not that, not *any* of that, and Jason deliberately gives up a little of his control, letting the *rush* run through him and stroking Tim more, squeezing and pressing, letting the crossbar of the 't' on Tim's back tickle his fingers as Tim fucking *bounces* on him—

Fucking takes him *deep*—

Bites and sucks and *drools* on him—

And pulls off to lick again, because maybe there's a little blood—

"Fuck, I want your *blood*—"

"You can *have* it, Jay. Anytime you—you want, oh, you're so *big* in me—"

"Bruce is bigger. You—nn. You won't be able to *do* this with him—"

"You want—I'd just take it. On my knees—"

"On your *back*. So he can fuck you with the way he *looks* at you, too."

"Oh, God, Jay. Oh, God, that's so *frightening*—"

"I know. You can *handle* it," Jason says and catches Tim's hips when the rhythm starts to slip, holds Tim *up* so he can fuck his way in, over and *over*—

"*Jay*, so good, always so *good*—"

"*Not* the first time—"

"*Yes*, because you lost control, because—" Tim moans and licks Jason again, *sucks*—

"No, tell me. Fucking *tell* me—"

"Sorry—oh, *God*, I—it was good, it was. You made me feel. Feel like you were the only thing in the world, like I was the only thing you *wanted*—"

"Not. Not a *thing*—"

"For *you*, Jay, for you I'll be anything, do anything—"

"Mother*fuck*, just—easy," Jason says, only he can't stop himself from tipping them over, from moaning when he slips most of the way out before Tim's on his back—

And then those legs are around his chest, knees digging in hard—

*In*, and Tim shouts for him, shakes for him, scratches at Jason's shoulders and tries to rock, to *take*—

No waiting, no hesitation, no anything but *this* fuck, hard and fast because anything else would kill him, *break* him—

And Bruce had wanted this from him, but he'd only managed it once because it was too *much* for him, Bruce was too tight and too *loud*—

But Tim is just loud *enough*, eyes closed and mouth wide open for the cries Jason's fucking out of him, for all the *goodness* Jason can't—

He can't see, can't touch—

And Tim is yelling, *screaming* Jason's name with his hands buried in Jason's hair, pulling and *holding*—

Tight little *ass*, so hot and perfect around him, so begging for *just* this—

"God, the way you *ask* for this—"

"*Beg*, Jay, oh, *Jay*, oh, *please*—"

"Then just keep *taking* it, Tim. Fuck, God, fuck, your little hole—"

"*Yours*, Jay, oh everything, I love you, I love you so *much*—"

And it's better to brace himself on *one* hand for this, to push three fingers into Tim's mouth and get *bitten*, watch Tim toss his fucking *head* a little—"*Suck*—"

And it's right there for him, perfect and sweet, better than—no, it's *not* better than anything, because his dick is being fucking *milked* by Tim's ass, because—

God, *yes*. Tim coming all over Jason's abdomen and chest, making him wet, making him *dirty* for this— "Good *boy*."

And Tim fucking *wails* for him, shuddering all over and spattering him one more time, hot and wet, so fucking *wet*—

And loose enough, now, that Jason can *really* fuck him, give in, give up, give everything he's fucking *got*, because the only consequence is the blood Tim *wants* to give him—

Because he can't fucking *stop*—

Oh, Bruce, Bruce, can you see me? Can you feel me inside you? Feel *this*, because I'm making him for you, because he's too good to give up, too *mine* to give up, clenching around me *rhythmically* and making me fucking *high* for this—

God, *Bruce*—

And he can feel it building at the base of his spine, at the base of his *dick*, feel it rising sharp and high until Jason doesn't know *what's* coming out of his mouth, until all he can see is Tim's wide eyes and the way he's *wincing* for every thrust—

Too hard—

He can't stop—

Too *hard* and nothing can be better than this, nothing can be *worth* this—

Can't fucking give this—

And the orgasm hits him like Superman having a *real* bad day, and he's aware that he's balls-deep in Tim, that he's shooting his fucking *brains* out—

Nothing else, everything else—

Can't see can't *think*—

And it feels like the sound of his own hitching, *grating* breaths is what yanks him trembling back into his own body, like he's going to fall *on* Tim—

No, he can stay up. He's—okay. A lot better than that. Jason licks his lips and grins at Tim—and gets a grin right back once he pulls his fingers out of Tim's mouth. He uses them to trace lines and idle patterns on Tim's face, to stroke the shell of Tim's ear.. yeah.

"How *much* does it hurt?"

"There's—ah. Mostly a sense of my lungs having relocated to my throat."

"Heh. That deep, hunh?"

Tim nods almost *solemnly*—and then shifts down the bed to ease things for himself a little bit. The tightness leaves Tim's face and gets replaced with something that looks a little... holy. Grace, need, beauty—

It seizes inside him, grips and shakes, fucking *demands*—

"Jay...?"

"I'm okay, kid. Just—zoning, a little."

Tim raises an eyebrow, but otherwise *lets* the lie sit there, because he loves Jason, needs him and wants him and loves him *that* damned much, and shouldn't he have something to give in return? *Shouldn't* it seize and hurt like that?

He can't give this *up*—

Jason growls internally, shakes it *off*—

He *needs* this—

He kisses Tim, and it's a little too hard, too, but not as much as that fuck, that beautiful, perfect—

Jason licks his way around Tim's mouth and reaches back to stroke the outside of Tim's thigh, squeeze it and feel it as Tim ever-so-fucking-slowly eases his *grip*.

They make a little noise together as Tim sets his feet down and Jason slips out about halfway, and they keep kissing as Jason softens. The *trick* to this is to stay as still as he can so that his dick doesn't get any *ideas*—

Out and Jason sighs, licks Tim's lips and pulls back. "How are you?"

"Wonderful," Tim says, and smiles for him, sweet and young and *sweet* as he squeezes Jason's neck. "Um. Could you... I mean. Maybe you could lie on me? For a little while?"

"Yeah, we can do that. And you don't have to..." Jason shakes his head. It's the kind of thing he's *denied* Tim more often than not in the interest of training, of getting Tim back home *something* like on time... "You shouldn't think I don't want this," Jason says, settling on top of Tim and generally feeling huge, greedy, *needy*—

"I—all right?"

"Just because other things get in the way... shit, I've gotta get you *home*—"

"I can get there by myself—"

"Not *fast* enough," Jason says, shifting until he's just *half* on Tim, because—

Well, it *feels* like the kind of compromise he needs right now.

"I'll take you home."

"I just—I didn't want—I didn't come here to make *work* for you, Jay."

Jesus. Hell. Jason cups Tim's cheek and turns him enough that they can look at each other, that Jason can *see* the fucking *trouble* in Tim's eyes and take that for himself, too. "One day, you're going to have a sweet little bike and you'll *take* the city with it. Until then, Bruce and I just need to move you around when and where we want you. It's *not* a big deal."

"I—"

"Trust me. Or trust the fact that I like having you wrapped around me."

Second blush of the night, and it's a *little* late, but... he likes it just fine. Jason pats Tim's cheek and then focuses on just petting him a little. His chest, his sticky abdomen, his mound to either *side* of his dick—

And Tim takes a deep breath and covers Jason's hand with his own. Hunh. "You need me to stop?"

"I—no. I just... wanted to feel."

"That's fine. Usually after a fuck I was too blown to do anything but *let* Bruce pet me all over, but—heh. I'm not Bruce."

"I think... it's fair to say I'm pretty blown, Jay."

"Mm, well... how *are* those orgasms you have without anything touching your dick? Better? Milder? Different?"

"Different is a good way to put it. They seem to almost come out of nowhere, even though they also take longer to happen. I can't quite compare them to the others."

"I never liked them as much... but I sure as fuck don't mind you having them."

Tim smiles again. "It's *also* fair to say that I don't, either. Jay, that was incredible. Especially at the end, when you were just..." Tim shakes his head. "I never know if I can *take* it. It's always so close to the edge, to where pain stops being great and starts being a problem, I suppose."

"Heh. Now *that* we can agree on—which is great, because it's not like I'm gonna stop fucking you that way."

Tim laughs, shifts—hisses and hums. "Please don't. I..." Tim shakes his head.

"Hey, what was that?"

"Nothing, Jay. Just—noise in my head that doesn't need to come out of my mouth," Tim says, and smiles ruefully at him.

Which... "You know I liked that tonight. Having you talk to me about what was on your mind."

Tim blinks at him. "I was very—there was babbling."

"*Interesting* babble," Jason says, and traces a circle around Tim's chest scars, clockwise and counterclockwise.

"Bruce... makes for a very diverting subject."

"Fuck, yeah, he does, but it's more than that. I..." How to say this? How to *deal* with what he's done—and failed to do?

And the answer is the same as it always is—push through until it *is* dealt with.

"I know I haven't exactly encouraged you to talk at me, but... it works for me. It lets me know *exactly* who I'm fucking, which is something... heh. *Somehow* I find it soothing."

And Tim just stares at him for a long moment—blush number three.

"Yeah?"

"I was just... I'd actually been thinking of saying something along those lines. That I'd enjoyed just speaking with you."

"Look at that. Another patch of common ground," Jason says, and smiles.

Tim smiles back at him, and they stay that way for a little while, talking about bikes Jason has known and loved, and which kind might be best for Tim, given how little he'll actually grow over the next year or so.

When his internal alarm starts yelling at him, Jason pulls his auxiliary knife from under his pillow and cuts four horizontal lines—each longer than the last—high on Tim's right arm.

He indulges himself in the taste of Tim's blood for a little while, in the soft sounds Tim makes when he sucks, in the sounds *he* makes when he stops sucking to lick—

And then he jerks Tim off, fast and hard, before taking him down to the gym to disinfect and bandage him. *He* can see the way the bandage puffs out the sleeve of Tim's shirt, but he has to admit that most other people would miss it entirely—

"And I'll be careful with the way I move," Tim says, and—

Of course he will.

He takes Tim back to his neighborhood in the thick and heavy pre-dawn darkness and *doesn't* follow him across the rooftops.

He leaves.


	20. Chapter 20

And he wakes up too damned early for no good reason he can figure. He works out *hard*, staring at the silence of his little anomaly sensor—*living* in the silence, a little—

He goes out to eat at the Chinese noodle joint he loves more than is strictly healthy, buys something for Alfred at the little hole in the wall bookstore, has it wrapped, and—

Fucking well owns *up* to himself—and his need.

The ride out to Bristol takes too long *and* goes too fast, and when he gets there—

When he gets there, he *is* there, and has to deal with the fact that Tim is up on a *gurney*. And—he doesn't look hurt.

*Bruce* looks hurt—and incredibly fucking hungry as he peels the bandage off Tim's arm—

As Tim looks at him like he can maybe *help*—

As Bruce presses his lips to the cuts—

As Tim shivers.

"Should I clear my throat, guys? Jesus."

"It could... help?" And... yeah, that's a little too much white showing around Tim's eyes.

Jason shakes his head and clears his throat as dramatically as *possible*—

Bruce looks at him *without* moving his mouth. Well, no, he *is* moving his mouth, and that's the problem—judging by the way Tim's looking at him. But... but.

"Why don't you tell me how you wound up in this position, Tim?"

"Um. Well, there was some carrying. I felt a bit like a package. A *small* package."

Laugh or not? It doesn't really matter—it's *on* his face. "And before that?"

"Ah. I was running through the staff-centric forms on Bruce's—oh, God, that—really is his *tongue*. Um—"

"Keep going, kid," and Jason makes the continue gesture.

"Yes. Well. I *believe* one of the new cuts started bleeding. Enough that it showed through the bandage?"

"Yes," Bruce says, in *that* voice, the one that means *control* is something that happens to other people, the one—

His *body* knows it *really* damned well, even after all these years. His body is going to know it until Jason dies horribly in some *alley*, somewhere, but *Tim* shouldn't know it, at all.

It's just that he closes his eyes for it and shakes again, and...

"Is it obvious, Tim? Can you—"

"Very. And yes, I can tell. It's—he came to my bed again last night. No more than five minutes—"

"Three," and that's Bruce again, still *mouthing* at Tim—

"Jesus, Bruce—"

"You *said*—" Bruce makes a low sound that's somewhere between a growl and a groan and wraps one arm around Tim's waist.

"Oh—fuck," Tim says, and starts pushing at Bruce's arms, or—

It's more of a testing *prod* than anything else, and that concentration-line is deep in his forehead, and—

What would this have been like if Jason *hadn't* come? Would Tim be putting up more or *less* of a fight?

And how about those reflexes and reactions Jason has put effort into *instilling* in Tim for the feel of being marked and wounded—and having those wounds made love to?

Jason presses his tongue against the backs of his teeth for a moment, takes another moment to *live* in the look in Tim's eyes a little, the apprehension and *confusion*—

He walks up to the gurney and there's a kind of body-shock to the way the wet sounds get louder as he goes, and another for the way Tim is fighting back *that* wince, the one that means he's enjoying the pain a little too much for his own sanity—

He wraps a hand around Bruce's forearm and tugs until Bruce stops holding Tim. "I know you know this is not how you seduce a scared kid, Bruce."

Bruce grunts and pulls back, mouth reddened with blood and a little bit of swelling. His eyes look *betrayed*—

"Yeah, I said *kid*. Look at him."

Bruce stands straight and does it, cupping Tim's face and forcing him to look at Bruce. "I don't. I don't think I understand."

He never, ever did. "I know you don't, which is why... no, it's not why I'm here, but I might as well explain it, hunh?"

Tim is tense enough to bolt—or try to bolt—at *any* minute—

And Bruce lets go of him and steps back, taking a deep and shuddery breath. "I'm listening," he says, and turns to Jason.

Jason nods. "Okay. He was good last night, wasn't he? Listened to you and had good things to say back?"

"He understood. He was—open. He laughed."

And the look on Tim's face is—really kind of *extremely* hilarious, and is all about how he's noticing just *how* crazy Bruce is. Just a man, right. Jason takes a couple of steps closer and rests one hand on the join of Bruce's shoulder and neck.

"Jay... the things you said last night, that you encouraged Tim to say... no. I—knew he wasn't entirely ready then."

"Patience is a *virtue*," Tim says, and his expression is a lot more pissy than anything else at the moment, which—

Yeah, still funny—

"I have few enough of those," Bruce says, and turns to smile at Tim ruefully—

It makes Tim blink and frown. Yeah, go ahead and think about that a little, Tim...

And he has something to say. "He *is* good, Bruce. If you let him, he'll take everything you can give him—"

"I—I was trying. It seems better to offer such things *with* pleasure, Jay, the way we were."

"Tim's *not* me. Yeah, he's horny all the time, but that's just his age—"

"And the company," Tim says. "Er—sometimes."

"I have no difficulty whatsoever understanding the power of your attraction to Jay, Tim."

Tim smiles *wryly*. "I'd picked that up."

Bruce nods and turns back to Jason again. "Tell me more. Or... you could let Tim explain?"

He could... but would Tim say everything? Does he know how to say it the right way? Jason raises his eyebrows *at* Tim—

"Um. Well. The fundamental difficulty—as I see it at this moment, and I could change my mind—is that you're not the man I thought you would be. Which is not to say that Jason hasn't been working very hard to prepare me for that fact, because he *has*. It's just that it keeps being... surprising."

Bruce nods. "And you would prefer me to be... more like the man you've been imagining?"

Tim blinks again. "I—I don't think I could ask for that, Bruce. It's not who you are, and we're not... you don't owe me anything, and I don't *like* the idea of asking for a favor that large, especially since you're already training me."

Oh... Tim.

Bruce frowns. "That seems a rather mercenary view of friendship—partnership, Tim."

Tim looks down and blushes—Jason tilts his head back up again. "Yes, I'm sorry," he says. "Ah... I just want to make sure you get—that *we* get what we need from each other. That we can be partners with no... issues. Or resentments."

And Bruce's frown gets a little deeper. "Do you resent my desire?"

"Your—desire." Tim swallows and now there's something a lot more like a flush on his face. "I can't be sure why Jason won't... with you, but it weighs on everything between us, Bruce. At least, I think it does. Or... I don't know—"

"No, Tim, keep going," Jason says, and taps the underside of his chin.

"Right, trust my deductions and observations. I—all right. It weighs on everything we are to each other. I'm not the partner you want and I'm not the *lover* you want, and having you treat me like I *am*... is disconcerting, to say the least. There's something of a skin-crawling sensation attached to it, actually," and Tim shifts—winces.

Last night, and Bruce has to be able to see it, has to be close to *smelling* it, and never mind showers and sweat.

Bruce nods after a moment and raises his hand, looking a question at Tim—

"I." Tim nods, and Bruce rests his hand on Tim's knee, fingers splaying up along Tim's thigh.

"I don't want to turn you into Jason, Tim. I don't want to turn you into anything—as opposed to wanting to get to know all of you. The fact that you're sexually involved with Jason is something that moves me, that encourages and *arouses* me—"

"I—picked that up. Too," Tim says, and rests one hand on Bruce's own, lightly enough that he can snatch it away at any moment—

Bruce smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners and making Jason want—

A lot, all at once. Jason sighs internally and moves his hand from Tim's chin to his shoulder, giving him a squeeze before letting go and crossing his hands over his chest. Just—listening now. That's all.

And Bruce squeezes Tim's leg. "I trust Jason's judgment, Tim. I trust his *taste*. Even when he was interested in shallowly physical affairs, he only chose young women with whom he could also converse. And now, for this... he's chosen you. And chosen you to be *my* partner. Surely you understand what that means about you, if not everything that means to *me*."

"It's—a great deal of responsibility, Bruce. And more than a little frightening—"

"It means you're a truly wonderful—and desirable—person. It means that you've *moved* him. The way you move me, already."

And... yeah. There's nothing there Jason can argue, nothing he can *say*, because *fuck* yes, Bruce remembers *everything* about seducing scared kids—and Tim is trying very, very hard not to look at him. "It's true, Tim. I... heh. I came here for you. And not because I was worried that you were gonna crash and burn or something."

Tim looks down—looks up again and shifts back on the gurney, curling his fingers around the side and squeezing— "I'm sorry, but that's rather a lot to—assimilate."

"And patience is a virtue," Bruce says, and his smile gets a little wider. "I will endeavor to become a more virtuous man... but I would like to kiss you first."

("I would only like to touch you, Jay. Or to... if I could *watch* you pleasure yourself...")

Jason's *still* not laughing, but now he knows Tim can see it on him, because that confusion and *suspicion* is aimed at him—

"Memories that don't have a thing to do with you, Tim," Jason lies and gestures with his chin. "Make a choice."

Tim squeezes the side of the gurney even harder, staring *into* Jason, but this isn't something he can do for Tim, isn't something...

He'd set the pitcher up and all but done the stitching on the ball, but it's up to Tim to hit it out of the park. He'd like to know what Tim is thinking, but he can always ask later—

And Tim turns back to Bruce and closes his eyes—no, not all the way. Just enough to make him look heavy-lidded and *extremely* available.

"Tim," Bruce says, tasting the name a little and making Jason feel out of place, jealous, scared, hungry—

Too much.

Bruce tightens his grip on Tim's thigh and brings his other hand to Tim's face, leaning in slowly enough that Tim can back out at any time, but all Tim does is tense a little and stay still for it until the very last moment when he darts close and presses his lips against Bruce's.

As kisses go, Jason's seen—and lived through—ones that seemed a lot better, but he can understand what's making Tim keep his mouth that tight, just as he can understand what's making Bruce *push* for it, making him *try* for it.

It's something like a teaching kiss—though Tim doesn't have all that much to learn about the basics. No, the lesson is more about what Bruce can give and *how* he can give it—

And Jason knows Tim's feeling it when he shivers and makes a soft noise into Bruce's mouth. It's the kind of thing that tends to make Bruce *need* to go in for the kill, but he holds himself back *right* up until Tim releases the tension in his jaw, at which point Bruce wraps his arm around Tim's waist again and lifts him *right* off the gurney.

Possibly this is where he clears his throat again, but he's had lots of very, very nice practice at dealing with Tim when he makes *that* noise, high and surprised and very much *game*—if not necessarily willing, or all the things that go along with it. Bruce is definitely using his tongue, doing his best to learn everything Tim likes, everything that makes him—

Another noise, and Tim is shifting in Bruce's grip, trying to get his hands up to those barn-beam shoulders and—

Push? Hold?

Bruce uses his free hand to stroke Tim's side, his back, his ass—

And Tim's hands spasm on Bruce's shoulders. Jason knows *that* feeling, too. A little doubt, a little fear, and a healthy dose of the kind of arousal that demands at least a little soul-searching—

Tim pushes and Bruce pulls back immediately, but doesn't set Tim down. Tim's searching Bruce's face *hard* and Bruce is standing still for it, offering his expression for Tim's examination and generally being... heh. Patient.

Jason makes a point of shifting on his feet, knowing that both of them can see him out of their peripheral vision—

"Ah—training," Tim says, and pushes again—cautiously.

Bruce nods solemnly and sets Tim down on his feet. If he's hard—

The erection Jason *knows* Bruce has is hidden behind his jock, and Tim's got his own jock. *Jason* doesn't, but—hell, it's Tim and *Bruce*. Jason reaches down to adjust himself a little and gives himself a moment to think about what they all *could* be doing right now, about how it would feel to watch Bruce watching *Tim* give it up, about *making* Tim give it up for Bruce, for both of them...

And Tim moves just a little closer to him, just as if that's anything resembling safe. But. "How are you doing, Tim?"

"Um. Good. Very... good," he says, and the look on his face is all about him wondering if this is okay, and maybe if anything *can* be okay.

Jason lets a smile onto his face that he knows is too sharp and too *hard*—but Tim just smiles back at him, looking up to get the best possible *view* of Jason's face and exposing that pale, unmarked throat. Jason unfolds his arms and reaches out to stroke the space where there'll never *be* a scar—not from him, anyway—and Tim gives him the *real* heavy-lidded look.

And Bruce is watching—seeing—absolutely everything.

"Bandage," Jason says—

"And disinfectant," Bruce says, and moves to get it from one of the cabinets.

Tim smiles ruefully and hops back up on the gurney. It only takes a minute or two before Tim's down again, and Bruce sends him back to his katas. There's no real reason for Jason to be here, but the same was true when he'd made his decision to come. He joins Bruce on the edge of the mats and watches Tim do things *he* hadn't taught him, perform moves Jason doesn't know...

"I was deeply disturbed when Dick began showing me things he'd learned from his Titans," Bruce says, low and mild and inviting.

That... "That's different."

"Is it, Jay?"

Fuck. "No. No, it's not."

Bruce nods and gives Tim the 'faster' gesture. "It's tempting to teach him as much as possible as *quickly* as possible, to... hm. *Erase* the training you've given him so that he can... well, I suppose the motivation behind that revolves around possession."

Jason nods right back. "I did think it would take you longer to reach this point."

"Covetousness? Desire? Obsession? Truly, Jason?"

And okay, *that's* a point, but—"*Truly*, B. He's not your usual type."

"Cynical, cold, occasionally quite harsh... when he isn't idealistic, warm, and relentlessly kind," Bruce says, and smiles. "I'd like to understand his contradictions a little better."

"And you think you can do that with your dick?"

"It seems to be worth a try... but no. I've never allowed myself that *particular* illusion—or delusion, for that matter," and Bruce holds up the hand signal for stop before ordering Tim to practice his tumbling and flips. Hm.

"You should make him do that in the cape."

"I'm not sure he should have one."

"He should. In my world—"

"In your world, he presumably only had *my* training. Most of what you've given him would make a cape superfluous at best."

And the uncomfortable feeling for that... is a seriously uncomfortable feeling. Robin has a *cape*—

"You begin, perhaps, to recognize some of my reservations about having him be Robin?"

"He *is* Robin—"

"Yes," Bruce says, and fingers sketching the ghost of 'stand-down' in a way Jason finds familiar from way too many fights. Screaming matches in the Cave that always ended with Jason storming off on the bike and hating to take anything from the stupid, rich asshole—

Jason shakes his head. "Go on."

"He is Robin, and only a death will change that. But you already knew he'd be a different sort of Robin, entirely. You set *out* to make him a different sort of Robin, and, perhaps more importantly, to make him proud of that fact."

He *really* wants to argue that— "His self-esteem was in the shitter, B. His parents..." Are set to have an incredibly *difficult* day in just a few weeks. "I didn't help, at first. Since I caught a clue, I've been doing what I could to improve things."

Bruce nods again. "Such things are important. So is the *protection* a cape can offer—but only if it doesn't slow him down. You've done quite well without one."

"I have years Tim doesn't. And you know he hasn't had any crossfire training."

"Three days ago I introduced the subject. He was terrible in the cape, but entirely adequate without."

Jason grunts. "I." He doesn't have anything to go after that.

"You don't like it. I understand. And I haven't yet made up my mind," Bruce says, and they watch Tim in silence for a little while. He makes the mats his own, treating the assignment as though he's under attack from... hmm.

Jason would guess four or five large and well-trained targets. He pauses to attack with the staff every now and then, but mostly focuses on dodging and moving. "Do you have a better staff for him, yet?"

"In production. He'll have it as soon as it's finished."

Jason brings his hand to his mouth—no, it's *Dick's* bad habit to chew his thumb. He just has to deal with everything in him that's making him want to fidget.

"Jay...?"

"You ever think about the fact that he *would* be ready if he was just a little bigger—or if he wasn't capable of learning so much more?"

Bruce smiles with his eyes. "The bitter with the sweet. I also understand why you were taking him out as much as possible, but I can't. The fear is too great."

"You can't hold him back for much longer."

"No. But perhaps for long enough. I'll be using him to interrogate the more recalcitrant informants."

Jason crosses his arms over his chest again and tries to tell himself he feels comforted, steady— "The way you used me."

"*Every* time we spar, he tries to cripple me. Sometimes temporarily, sometimes permanently. Tell me—did he learn the more pain-oriented strikes faster or were you just more... assiduous?"

"Heh. A little of both. He's a vicious little bastard at heart."

"Which explains—to a certain extent—the attempts to maim me with his knife."

Which... hunh. Jason turns to face Bruce and raises his eyebrows.

Bruce keeps his eyes on Tim. "Yes, I let him train with it. I had to see how... natural he was with it. And then I had to see... more. Do you think you'll ever allow him to mark you?"

"I have. But not permanently... unless those bite marks scar. I..." Jason shifts, thinking about the seizing thing in him, the thing he can feel even now, that—he has to admit—he's been feeling all fucking *day*—"If he wants to. If it feels right."

Bruce nods as if that was actually honest, and—hell, maybe it was. No one's better at reading the truth under lies than Bruce is, full stop. And—

If Bruce has to know how Jason feels about that kid, then Bruce has to know. There's no way around that, and there never could've been. Maybe... maybe it even helps. Something.

"What... what can you tell me about how much and how quickly he'll grow?"

"That wasn't what you were going to ask."

Another smile, and this one narrows Bruce's eyes so much that it makes Jason ache, all over.

Diffuse and fucking *annoying*—

"Humor me for a little while," Bruce says, gesturing Tim to stop and then to the uneven bars.

Right. Well... "I was out of the country for most of Tim's tenure as Robin in my world, but my general impression—and the records I acquired—suggest slow growth and not much of it. He was only about an inch taller than he is now when he started out. Another five to six by the time he's seventeen."

"That fits my calculations. I'd hoped... well."

Jason nods and they walk over to watch Tim act like the acrobat he absolutely *could* be—

"If there were some other suitable candidate for Robin, would you have sent Tim to Dick?"

Jason thinks about that, because... he really hadn't. It was Tim and it had to *be* Tim, for a lot of different reasons. He doesn't want to say there was no one else—if *anyone* could flat out *pull* a Robin out of the fucking ether, it's Bruce—but... "Dick *should* have a hand in training him."

"Agreed. But you've done well, Jay. I... I never imagined that you would have the flexibility you've developed."

Jason laughs a little. "You wouldn't have been able to pull it out of me, B. I learned a whole hell of a lot by dying—and by dying that *way*."

"Jay... you must know that you don't have to leave. If you want a civilian existence, something can be arranged. And you will always be—"

"Your son?"

Bruce swallows, but he still isn't looking away from Tim. "I wish—I tried to be a father to you, to take the opportunity you'd given me, the *gift* you'd given me by allowing the adoption—"

"I never wanted you to be my father, B. I thought, maybe... once in a while, I imagined what it would be like if you *had* been my father in more than name... I don't know."

"Would you tell me what it was like in your fantasies?"

"Warm. Safe. Not at all *insane*." Jason laughs a little and bumps Bruce with his shoulder. "The fantasies always fell apart real damned fast. They depended on you being someone you just *weren't*... and me being able to deal with that."

"But if I had never been myself, *wholly* myself—"

"Then you would've been lying to me, and I *would've* picked that up sooner or later. And hated you for it the way I hated all the other adults who tried to snow me." He turns to look at Bruce again. "It's *just* like that thing with my father, B, only it would've been worse."

And Bruce is frowning when he looks at Jason, but he nods. "I've never loved anyone the way I love you, Jay."

"Heh, well, I *hope* not. Because the way you love me is seriously FUBAR."

Bruce nods again. "You were beautiful with Tim last night. The love you felt, the need he brings out of you—"

"He drives me fucking *crazy*. I—there are things I want to do with him, people I'd like to *be*, but I can't, because when I look around, he's looking at me with those big eyes and suddenly I'm too hard to *think*."

"Because he needs you—"

"*Yes*—"

"Because he loves you, as well," Bruce says, and turns back to watch Tim work, watch him flip and turn and *fly*. "He has a curious beauty. I—someone once called it the 'second-look' beauty, because it was completely unnoticeable until and unless one took the time to come to know the person involved. To tease out their contradictions and moments of perfection, to watch the person behind their eyes shift and change..."

"Yeah, that's about right. And—someone?"

"Harvey Dent," Bruce says, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but it seemed... fitting."

Jason feels the scowl take his face and fights it back with the image of holding a gun to Dent's head—

Holding *two* guns to Dent's head and pulling the triggers—

No, he doesn't want to use guns unless it's necessary. He just—doesn't. A knife would be good enough, quick and clean and neat... have you figured a way out of Arkham yet, Dent? Are you ready to die?

"Jay."

Sharp and neat as any order, because yeah, Bruce can hear him thinking, all right. "Leave it. I asked."

"What do you hope to achieve with the deaths of our enemies?"

"The deaths of our enemies. Look, Bruce, I know that more will rise in their place, that people like Dent and the Joker help keep the other criminals *down*, but the other criminals just aren't as fucking *poisonous* as they are. Small-timers or half-assed crime families, the lot of them—or haven't you been paying attention to the crime stats in the cities that *don't* have their very own vigilantes? Hell, their very own criminal *brand*."

"Ivy told me once that there would always be 'freaks' for me. That they would spring fully-formed from the minds of the disturbed and imaginative, and that they would do so until the day I died—or retired."

"A *dead* freak or two swinging from a lamp post will help, Bruce. You can't do anything about the real crazies but *end* them. Eventually, things will settle down *enough*," Jason says, and thinks about the gang war he'd helped put a stop to, about the blood on his hands and the machete he hadn't even been able to look at after the last head had finished rolling... "If you *didn't* hear the sense in what I'm saying, you'd have brought down Green Arrow years ago."

"He does more good than harm."

"He's a killer."

Bruce's jaw is tight— "And so are you. But if you were entirely comfortable with it—"

"I wouldn't be defending myself right now, no," Jason says, smiling a little and shaking his head. "Part of me still needs you to love me—"

"I *do*, Jay—"

"Part of me will *always* need it, because you're the best man I've ever known, and I wish to God I could see the world you see, that I could *live* in that world, and only ever know love and warmth, hope and beauty..."

"Robin—"

"Is over *there*," Jason says, and thinks about pointing for good measure... but Tim would see it and wonder. He doesn't do it. "Your world is a wonderful place, B, but it's not the one the rest of us have to live in."

And Bruce is silent for a long moment, the only sign that anything is going on in his mind at all the way that he's tracking Tim's movements as Tim goes into the second routine Jason taught him.

The one he's better at than Jason will ever be.

Eventually, Bruce grunts. "Tim asked me, last night, what I thought about the concept of magical thinking. He was both skewering me with an exceedingly gentle—and thorough—touch and asking me a real question. He has yet to tell me where *he* slips into that particular failing."

Jason smiles because yeah, he can picture it. That eyebrow going up just a *little* as Tim kept himself from fidgeting by oh, say, stilling himself and thinking about cold things.

Or Jason's hand on the back of his neck.

Or—something. Jason sighs a little. "I'd bet it has something to do with Batman and Robin. We're talking about a belief system he's devoted most of his *life* to, after all."

"By his account, it was *Dick* he devoted his life to—and then Robin."

Jason raises a hand and waves it a little. "Can't get away from Batman. The dark knight who *saved* the little boy who still cries in his nightmares, night after night after night."

Bruce turns to look at him again, eyes just a little wide. "Is that—no, in retrospect I know that's exactly what he thinks. What he *believes*. I have to tell him—"

"You could let him learn on his own," Jason says, smiling just a *little*.

"Oh, yes, that would go over positively brilliantly," Bruce says, and rubs a hand over his face. "He needs to speak to Dick immediately."

"Mm. I'd like to say that I try to save the Tim's-soul-destroying revelations for when he's feeling good and strong, but... that would be a *lie*."

Bruce grunts again and shakes his head. "*Saved* Dick. I. He tried to comfort me after you... after the Jason from this world died."

"So that was a cock-up."

"I hit him. I—" Bruce clenches his hands into fists. "Every small, fragile inroad we'd made into being able to speak with each other again, being able to *work* together... why is it, do you think, that I always seem to fail so spectacularly at things people with no training whatsoever in psychology manage without so much as a misstep?"

Jason grips Bruce's shoulder and shakes him a little. "You're kind of a fuckup that way, B. I mean, I know you already know that, but sometimes you just have to really put some time into *thinking* about it."

And Bruce's laugh... is an actual laugh, breathy and low. It only lasts for a moment, but it means the same thing it always has, *works* Jason the same way it always has.

It's a *victory*, and it's all for him. "Seriously, though. You'd just lost your *lover*, Bruce. Dick probably forgave you before he was all the way back to New York."

"He shouldn't. He shouldn't forgive me anything, Jay. The things I've said and done—"

"Are over," Jason says, and gives Bruce a good, solid squeeze before—all right, so he's *not* letting go, just yet— "Look at it this way—the better you get along with Dick *now*, the happier your little Robin will be. The happier *he* is—"

"The happier you are, Jay...?" And Bruce gives him the damned eyebrow.

Jason jabs Bruce in the chest with two fingers on his free hand. "*And* you. That's the only real problem with the kid I can see. You *need* a little sunshine around you, and Tim was born with a damned Vitamin D allergy."

Bruce smiles. "It suits him well. And there's something soothing about not being the only one perpetually in a black mood. And something disconcerting about being the more cheerful one... but I plan to get used to that."

Jason snorts. "You *do* that."

Tim dismounts perfectly, which means he's tired enough to doubt his ability to continue *safely*.

Jason thinks about it—

"The beam, do you think?"

Yes, actually, but—

"The beam, Tim," Bruce says. "Staff and cape."

Tim's attention *lasers* in on the hand Jason has on Bruce's shoulder, which makes something seriously *twitchy* inside him, but—he goes without a word or so much as a facial expression. Jason takes a breath.

"Tim has begun sharing dinners with me down here," Bruce says, in the idlest possible way. Distraction offered—

Distraction taken. "His parents are the most useless people on the planet."

"I have some recognition software set to 'mark' the recordings whenever... certain words are used."

Words like 'Tim,' 'son,' and 'kid,' probably. Jason shakes his head. "We'd all be better off if you just took him away from them."

"That sort of thing works a lot more smoothly when the parents in question are either dead or in prison, Jason," Bruce says, and that was fucking *arch* enough to *deserve* a laugh, but—

Haiti. The fucking *countdown* has started, and the tickets have already been purchased—

"Jay? What is it?"

And the solution is right there for him, sudden and kind of perfect, because Bruce wasn't *able* to save both Drakes in his world, despite being right *there*... "You're gonna have to pull their asses out of the fire in a little while—assuming things keep going here the way the same way they went in my world."

"What's going to happen to them?" And all of the arch is out of his voice, leaving something dead serious and solid as a fucking brick. *Just* because they're parents.

"A kidnapping in Haiti—they already have their tickets. I don't have all the details, but I know that the kidnapper *is* Haitian and that there are no other victims."

Bruce searches him hard, but that was nothing but the truth—

Even if it *was* offered with one hell of a lie in his *heart*.

"Both of them were killed?"

"The father survived—barely. He spent a good, long while in a coma," Jason says, and shifts, a little—

"You think Tim is going to become suspicious of this particular conversation. And. You didn't tell him because there was nothing he could've done about it without raising suspicion."

*Something* like that...

Bruce frowns. "And because you don't want them to survive."

Jason spreads his hands. "Drake Industries writes a lot of paychecks to a lot of people who'd be starving without it. But the Drakes themselves are a waste of space—and you know it."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Should I be surprised that you haven't killed them yourself?"

"I needed Tim to be on *my* side, B—and he still loves them well enough, I'd bet. *And*... Tim is their only victim. I guess you could say I still have a few standards."

"Jay..." Bruce covers the hand Jason has on his shoulder with his own. "I have to save them."

You have to *try*. "I know you do, B. But I'm not gonna stop hoping you don't try all that hard. It's for the sake of *Gotham*, too."

"I don't care for omelets so much that I subscribe to the theory, Jay—"

Jason raises his other hand. "I know, I know. And I don't need you to. Let's go watch Tim make the beam his bitch," Jason says, and pulls away from Bruce—

Bruce squeezes his hand before letting go, and—

Yeah, Tim looks good up there. A little stiff and cautious, but that's only hurting his speed. The cape looks a little weird over workout clothes, but with the moves and the look on Tim's face...

It works. Or... it *could* work. He'll have to ask Tim how *he* feels about it, since there's no way in hell he doesn't know just how much he slips with it on.

Dick hadn't looked back once after ditching his cape, which... well, he'd been taking it off to fly long before he knew Bruce. Jason can feel Bruce studying both of them, and Jason has to own the fact that it feels good. He knows *exactly* what he'd given Bruce in Tim, and Tim is too good to fail in this. His balance is almost instinctive and the stiffness is fading as he works.

He's flushed with exertion, but Jason knows he can keep going long after the staff starts feeling like it's made out of lead—

"Do you think he'll believe you?"

When Jason tells him there was nothing more he could do for his parents? Jason can feel the heat rising all through him, and there's nothing he can do about it, nothing he can say but the truth Bruce will drag *out* of him—

"Oh, Jay... do you believe *me* when I say there's nothing wrong with your love?"

Love. Bruce was asking about *love*. Motherfucking *Christ*—"Bruce, I'm not—it's not *like* that."

"You can't stay away from him. You couldn't spare a moment when he came to you before you were leading him to your bed. He makes you *lose* yourself—"

"Fuckin' A, Bruce—I." Jason turns enough to look at Bruce, at the hunger in his eyes that somehow doesn't have a thing to do with what's between *them*, and how Bruce even *manages* that—

He's Bruce.

"He just turned thirteen. That sort of thing is *rarely* part of any plan for a rational adult," Bruce says, raising an eyebrow again and still *beaming* out hunger.

Need. "I need him, I want him, and I don't—it doesn't do anyone any good if I love him, because I'm not *staying*. So, no, I *don't* think he'd believe me if I said it, because I'm just going to be one more person who abandons him," Jason says—

Bruce looks just past Jason's shoulder, and it hits. Too loud. That was too fucking *loud*, and when he turns, Tim is standing there with the staff collapsed into a harmless stick, staring up at him with his eyes too wide and his body tensed so hard—

"Don't do that. Loosen up," and it's reflexive enough to come out a damned *order*—

And Tim relaxes himself deliberately, but doesn't stop staring even when he starts blushing. And—

He'd heard that. How *much* of it he'd heard is something—no, he'd heard all of it, and now he needs—

He *needs*, and why the hell were they that close to the beam, anyway? Where was his fucking *head*—

"Jay...?"

And the look on his face has to be fucking awful right now, judging by how he *feels*, and that means it's necessary to get a hand on Tim's face, to feel warmth and the dampness of sweat, the proof of all the *work* Tim has done for this—and for him.

*Bruce*—is a pair of eyes currently burning holes in his *back*, and never mind the fact that he absolutely *would* be taking in every last detail of this little moment as opposed to focusing just on Jason, because sometimes how you *feel* has the right of it, and the facts are just... details.

Jason strokes Tim's cheekbone with his thumb. "I meant it," he says, knowing that it's useless with everything *else* he meant, knowing—

Tim makes a soft, high *noise* and turns his face against Jason's palm, kissing fucking *frantically* and whispering something Jason can't hear. That he doesn't *want* to hear, because it just makes all of this more real, all of it heavier and completely fucking *inescapable*—

Like the feel of Bruce's hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't always easy for me to say, Jay. Even in the privacy of my own mind."

And now Tim is gripping Jason's wrist, squeezing hard enough to be more than a little uncomfortable as he keeps kissing, whispering, nuzzling, and Jason thinks maybe he'd want to start *rubbing*, but that—

Jason pulls his hand back—and brings Tim closer by default. "Tim—"

"I'm sorry. I'm honestly very—sorry. It's just that right now, I need. I mean, I want. I mean—I do believe you, Jay, because you wouldn't look like you'd just been stabbed in the liver if you didn't mean it, and I'd like to make it easier for you and I know I *can't*," Tim says, biting his lip and looking frustrated with himself, *pissed* at himself— "I'm sorry. And I won't say that it's all right that you have to—to leave, but I understand. And I hope that makes it. Better."

Ouch. Fucking—he pulls Tim in against him, digging his chin in against the top of his head and holding on as tightly as he can. Fuck oxygen. Nothing is better when Tim wraps his arms around Jason's waist—

But nothing is worse, either.

What's worse, as sins go? Tim maybe wishing Jason never finds a way home, or to any home-*like* universe, or Jason wishing Tim's only family into the ground? Is there a balance sheet for that? Maybe a supercomputer fired up and ready to crunch the numbers?

Jason strokes Tim's back and feels Bruce moving closer—for only a moment before the hand on Jason's shoulder is gone and Bruce has moved himself and his fucking *presence* somewhere Jason can't quite feel him. He *hates* when Bruce does that, because the only time it works is when Bruce is in some way closed *off* from him, and that's not the way partners *work*—

But he isn't Bruce's partner, anymore, and Jason knows, down deep,. that Bruce is only doing it to give Jason as much *space* with Tim as possible. Not that he needs much—

He needs enough. Jason sighs and kisses the top of Tim's head, breathing in the scent of him and taking the rush of familiar desire, the *seize* inside him—

Tim pulls back and smiles at him very, very cautiously.

Jason offers a rueful one in return and then turns to *look* for Bruce—who is helping Alfred with the dinner tray. Alfred isn't staring at him or anything like that, but he's having a lot more trouble setting things out than he should, which...

Yeah. Jason retrieves Alfred's present from the pannier and gets back just in time to watch Bruce catch the pitcher of lemonade before Alfred drops it.

"I got something for you, Al."

"That truly wasn't necessary... Master Jason," Alfred says, and when he looks up, there's suspicion and fear in his eyes, but mostly there's *hope*, and that particular brand of cautious affection...

Jason smiles and offers the book. "Necessary means different things to different people."

Alfred blinks and takes it, swallowing and closing his eyes for just a moment. When he opens them, they're clear and blank and professional, and that...

Jason smiles a little wider and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I really, really missed you."

"Then perhaps you should consider not staying away... for quite so long. I understand we have you to thank for Master Tim's presence in our lives?"

"He would've found his way here sooner or later. I just thought sooner was a little better," Jason says, and watches Bruce and Tim sit down to eat out of the corner of his eye—

Three place settings. He *really* should've known—

"Well. The least I can do is be sure that you have a good meal before you leave us again," Alfred says, and gestures, smoothly and subtly, at the table.

"I—heh. Noted, Al. And thank you."

"You're very welcome, indeed, Master Jason," and Alfred inclines his head and starts walking up the stairs with the book sandwiched between his gloved palms.

He'd *sent* presents to Alfred in his own world and called it enough to the hungry thing in him, promised it was *enough* to the *raging* thing in him...

Jason sits down and eats, noting that—at least while *he's* here—Bruce and Tim do it in silence and across from each other. Getting Bruce to talk about little things was never the easiest thing in the world, and lord knows Tim's *used* to eating in silence—

And the slight twitch at the corners of Tim's mouth is a smile he's ruthlessly beating back, which is cuter than it has any fucking right in the universe to be. Jason swallows a bite of roasted asparagus and reaches across the table to tap Tim's plate with his fork.

Tim looks up with eyes that are almost fucking *brimming* and Jason pretty much has to smile at him again.

"Better than eggs and milk, hunh?"

Tim lets the smile all the way onto his face. "You're a good cook, Jay."

"Necessity is the mother of a whole lot of scrambled eggs, kid," Jason says, and looks at Bruce—

Who was managing to do nothing but stare *at* Jason for fuck only knows how long without registering past the great, big *wall* of Tim currently blocking out large portions of Jason's mind. Bruce looks pleased and starved at *once*, and Jason smiles at him, too, taking a little advice from the *fourteen*-year-old that still lives in him, sometimes—

Things being fucked up is no reason not to have a little fun, sometimes.


	21. Chapter 21

Magical thinking is a funny kind of thing. It doesn't matter how stupid and damaging you *know* it is—it's still pretty fucking tempting. Like this:

For the afternoons when he heads out to the manor, he leaves the portable sensor at home. The semi-rational reason is the fact that the anomalies only really seemed to pop off regularly in heavily-populated areas. The *real* reason is that a part of him honestly believes that he has a better chance of *getting* an anomaly—and the kind of one he actually wants—if he leaves it unwatched for a certain fraction of time every day. Like maybe one will go *just* as he gets back to the gym, because, hey—it's Gotham, and stranger things happen every fucking day.

The fact that this means he gets to spend time working out in the Cave and not incidentally watching Tim get better and better... is a fact. And gravy. And nothing he's going to deny himself. He drops Tim back home every evening, he patrols, and he climbs in Tim's window every night and gets what he needs, pressing on new bruises with his fingertips and thinking idly about where he's going to put the next scar and what it'll be.

He *doesn't* use his knife, but he uses everything else—and he gets Tim used to having sex with the bedside lamp on, because *sometimes* Bruce will break off patrol and lurk.

Mostly on the rooftop with the best view, but once actually in the corner of Tim's bedroom. Jason's not sure how long he was there—he was pretty damned *focused* on the sight, feel, taste, smell, and *not* sound of Tim tied to his own bedposts and gagged, but he'd obviously been there long *enough*—

And had stayed after Jason had left. Jason had paused on that rooftop for long enough to see Bruce massaging Tim's wrists and saying *something*, and then he'd gone back to the gym and had a long and restless night filled with images and fantasies.

He hasn't told Bruce or Tim that he wants to be there when they *do* finally do it, and it's an itch at the back of his brain, because he doesn't think it's obvious *enough* what he wants.

There are other itches. The silent sensor, the fact that Dent's *long* overdue for that breakout, the fact that Dick still doesn't know anything, the fact that every fucking *day* he gets closer to sweeping Bruce's feet out from under him and pinning in, having him, *taking*. Fuck resolutions and good intentions, he's *right there*.

The fact that Bruce has booked his own flight to Haiti—

The fact that Bruce can feel him, that Bruce is *knowing* him, that Bruce is lurking somewhere at the back of his mind every time he snaps some asshole's collarbone or slices off an ear—

The fact that Tim *isn't* with him and could be, should be—

Batman and Robin, and maybe it's just the multiverse having a good belly laugh at his expense, because he really had thought he'd get away from it by now. Yes, even *with* all of his plans.

Jason snorts to himself. Right now, he's going through Bruce's files on gang activity and wondering—for not even close to the first time—where Bruce *finds* the time to get this kind of information. He's got the girlfriends and occasional boyfriends, he's got the kids' names and sometimes where they go to school... everything to make the occasional interrogation by the Batman *good* and terrifying.

It's the sort of thing that makes it impossible not to wonder just what kind of information was available about Willis Todd back in the days before Two-Face killed him. Did Bruce have *his* name down? Maybe a picture or two? Bruce has always talked like meeting Jason was some kind of revelation to his *soul*, but...

But. Jason keeps working and studying. The information will come in handy on the street, and also he doesn't especially want to turn around, because...

*Right* now, Bruce and Tim are having a spar. Most of the noise coming through are the sounds of two *very* different pairs of feet moving on the mats and of two staves clacking and occasionally sliding against each other. The fact that Bruce hasn't *used* a staff since some sensei somewhere had taught him how is meaningless against the fact that he's *Bruce*, and is thus still *exactly* that good with one.

*He* could almost certainly pick up a few things just by watching them go, but—

It's hard to watch them spar. It's—

It's two bodies he's deeply, deeply fond of in *motion*, two bodies punishing each other and moving, striking, and moving again. It's Bruce and it's *Tim*, and how many spars has he had with both of them which have ended in sex?

The answer is a deeply sincere 'a *lot*,' and he just doesn't want to start something here—both because he doesn't think he's fucking *emotionally* up to finishing it and because he's not sure of *Tim*. It's not that Tim has been *especially* wary of Bruce—certainly not enough to put a crimp in the training—but the wariness is still there.

Sometimes when they're all down here in the Cave, Jason thinks he can *feel* it. A sense of being watched, of being *measured* for something he'd never signed on for. A sense of his mouth being both a little on the raw side and his arm being obvious about being wounded—even though Jason doesn't even have any *old* scars where Tim has his new ones.

A part of Jason is only waiting—impatiently—for Tim to reach for what he *does* want, to lay down a few ground rules so that Bruce can set about changing Tim's mind about them. To give it *up*, and while Jason can recognize that his motivations *and* desires around the whole thing are pretty damned murky, his dick has a *pretty* fair idea of what it wants—

And what it's not *getting* no matter *how* many bite marks Tim has been leaving on his shoulders, his chest, and just a *little* one on his neck—

Which had felt so good that Jason had wound up fucking Tim a second time just for the throb of the thing with his pulse—

*Clack* go the staves, and those are Tim's footsteps as he tries to get away from what would be a seriously powerful shove from Bruce—

Clack-*clack*, and that means Bruce is on the attack, chasing Tim around the mats and making Tim work for every single dodge, every abortive attempt to get a strike in of his own—

Jason *reads* and ignores the fucking Technicolor images in his mind, the layout of the Cave, the things Tim might use to protect himself—

Oh, but that was an *interesting* noise. A little *thunk* which Jason's pretty sure means that Bruce had given Tim an opening to throw his knife, only to dodge and have the thing bury itself in... it would be one of the dummies, judging by what the sound of footsteps tell him about where the spar has taken them—

And yeah, he's still reading—it's just that he's gone over one particular line of text about this guy's seriously dangerous grandmother *eight* times.

Motherfuck. He spins Bruce's chair around and looks—

And watches Bruce approach Tim at about three quarters of the speed he *can* use, giving Tim just a little time to read his eyes—

Tim swings and leaps to the side, tucking his legs in to avoid the end of Bruce's strikes—

And then Tim rolls to his feet and attacks, spinning his staff to avoid Bruce's strikes and absolutely feeling every vibration of contact in his hands. Jason had taught him to push through the inevitable bouts of numbness spiked through with pain, which, considering how *many* strikes and slashes Bruce is aiming at the kid, has to be pretty severe by now.

They're both silent and *focused*, and Jason wonders if he would've had an easier time concentrating if Tim—never Bruce—had maybe let out a few grunts and cries—

Okay, no, that was one of his *stupider* thoughts. As it is...

Tim doesn't get *frustrated* the way Jason did back when he was in training—and still does. Jason knows Tim would deny that if it was ever phrased to him that way, but Jason doesn't think it should count *as* frustration if you can control it the way Tim does.

He never loses sight of just how dangerous his opponents are—or can be—and he never deviates from the lessons he's been taught. Whether it's the gymnastic perfection of that jump over Bruce's sweep or the perfect cruelty of that back-strike which would've taken out the kneecap of a good, solid, ninety to ninety-five percent of the opponents Tim's likely to face on the street.

Bruce, of course, just steps *around* it, but Tim doesn't even growl before moving back into defensive mode and focusing on staying alive. He's had two falls before now, and Jason knows, deep down, that Tim is desperate to avoid a third before Bruce calls time.

He knows that feeling for himself, that sense of wanting—*needing*—to at least win one on a *technicality*. It'll be years of pain, practice, and *growth* before Tim's a match for either one of them, but he thinks, maybe, that *Tim* doesn't think that way. It may be because he doesn't expect to live that long—which is an attitude which would kind of suit the little bastard—or it could be something else entirely. Maybe something like the hero worship they've been beating out of him in one way or another since this whole thing started?

It *could* be—it's not like either of them have taken the shine off *Dick*, and shines like that are the kinds of things that can really spread the fuck *out*...

No, he doesn't know for sure, and a *large* part of him is willing to just call it Tim being Tim and leave it at that. Sometimes he thinks he would've been able to *deal* with Tim a lot faster if he *did* get frustrated... but that doesn't work, either, because then he would've had an *excuse* to take it out on the kid, which would've made the eventual sex a lot more fucked up.

Possibly even *too* fucked up. Not that he'd know *anything* about that. Jason laughs to himself and watches Tim strike and move, taking Bruce's *hard* blocks and working through them, not hesitating, not losing his rhythm even though he's probably numb from the elbows down, by now.

That kind of stamina... it hadn't taken *Jason* all that long to learn it, but he'd had a whole lot of rage on his side, the determination not to take *any* of this lying down.

Tim has Robin, and Jason guesses that desire is enough. Maybe those tastes Jason had given him of the real city, of the feel of blood spattering your cheek...

He wants Tim *out* there with them. Tonight, right now—

He wants Tim on the back of his bike or riding next to him on his own. Bruce has already started the driving lessons, but Jason hasn't been here for any of them. Hasn't *let* himself be there for them, and why not? Why the fuck *not*?

And the weight of all those other universes, all those possibilities, all that unfinished *business* in his own universe—

Damn—

And Bruce has picked up speed. He's not giving Tim *all* he's got, but he's giving a sizable fraction of it, and...

The *thing* about Bruce is that he's big enough that you don't *just* miss how fast he can be, you miss him *being* fast even when he's doing it right at you. And right now, he's trying hard to make Tim panic—on top of just trying to drop him or make him give up—

It's not going to work. He knows that in his *bones*, because if you can't get the kid frustrated, you sure as fuck can't make him feel any more fear than he already does. That fear... Jason would bet that Tim's been living with fear since he was old enough to realize that his parents *would* just up and leave—or start tearing strips off each other and maybe anyone who got too close to them—if they got pissed enough.

Haiti.

*Haiti*—

Not right now, because it's fucking beautiful to watch Bruce fight Tim back across the mats, watch him push and shove and strike and—

And there was a *kick* that Tim *just* managed to bend himself under, but it's making Tim unsteady now, a little slow to get his balance back—

"You're on a *ledge*, kid—"

And Tim gets his balance back just that fast, dancing along the fake ledge until he gets *just* far enough away to get back on the 'roof' proper—

"A potentially dangerous fantasy," Bruce says, and comes in hard—

"But a—useful one," and Tim is spinning his staff against the strikes, using its length and his own stamina, speed—

Clack-*crack* and Tim's staff is in two pieces—which he immediately tries to stab Bruce with.

Jason snorts *and* grips himself through his pants—

"Time," Bruce says, and there's a smile in his voice that's even bigger and wilder than the one on his face.

Tim grins back—and then frowns at the pieces of his staff.

"Go to the supply closet, Tim," Bruce says, standing down and still smiling, and Jason knows what it *means*, but it's possible that Tim doesn't, just yet.

He watches Tim jog over to it and gives himself a good, *solid* squeeze—and the feel of Bruce's gaze on him is enough to get him out of the chair and moving, so that he's close enough to hear Tim's soft little 'oh' as, yes, he discovers the newer, tougher staves.

Jason moves closer and rests his hands on Tim's shoulders from the back, leaning in close to his ear. "Sometimes money—and a team of *extremely* short-sighted eggheads—is a *real* good thing, kid."

"I. I broke *your* staff, Jay—"

"No, *Bruce* broke *your* staff. Someone was going to, eventually—be glad it happened while you were safe and could *get* new ones," Jason says, and gives Tim's shoulders a squeeze.

"It's. All right, but."

"Feelin' sentimental? Save that for the first time your sweet little knife goes flying off a bridge. *That* you can cry for," and Jason steps back and pulls Tim with him.

He's got the broken staff pieces in one hand and the new staff in the other, and Bruce is watching every moment of this, watching Jason spin Tim around to face him, watching him tilt Tim's head back and look down into those wide eyes, those eyes that are only cold if you're not *doing* it right—

"How are you feeling?"

"Ah—good. Exhilarated. Not entirely sure if my arms are still attached."

Bruce hums quietly.

Jason grins. "Oh, they are. Why don't you let me help you check...?"

And those eyes go *very* wide, before Tim smiles up at him and *starts* to reach—

And then very obviously *remembers* that Bruce is right there. Heh. Jason strokes Tim's cheekbones. "It's all right."

"I—we've never. Here. And that seems. Like a very important step," Tim says and *just* barely turns enough that he can see Bruce—

And it falls into place. What he has to do and how this *has* to be. "Look at me, Tim. Only at me."

"Oh." Tim swallows and does it. "You're really. You want—"

"After watching that spar? I *need*," Jason says, placing the new staff in the hand with the pieces and bringing Tim's empty hand to his crotch—

Tim squeezes him immediately and licks his pretty lips, making it *incredibly* obvious and important that he has a *mouth*, and that that mouth is getting to be as skilled as the rest of him.

"Mm. You feel good, Tim."

"Better by the moment, actually. I..." Tim smiles, quick and sharp. "If you're sure it's all right—"

"Yes," Bruce says, and it's as useless as it always is to ask just *when* he'd gotten that close, because he's *right* there, big as life and moving behind Tim. Out of his field of vision.

Wide eyes again, and Tim's hand *spasms* on Jason's dick.

"Mm. Don't get fancy just yet," and Jason grins and peels off his t-shirt—and gets his field of vision back just in time to watch Bruce gently and carefully removing the new and old staves from Tim's free hand. Which immediately winds up on his chest.

Tim touches him the way he always does when he still has most of his control, with a firm and thorough care that skirts the line between clinical and hot. He's squeezing Jason rhythmically as he strokes and touches—and doesn't *quite* touch the bite marks he's left. Which—

"Touch them. *Feel* them—they're yours."

Tim shivers and searches his eyes—and then *presses* on the latest bite mark hard enough to make Jason grunt for the pain, the body memory and the *sting*.

It makes Jason want to ask Tim if he'll mark Bruce that way, but he knows it's not time for that, yet, even with Bruce *right* there behind him. Maybe *because* Bruce is right there behind him.

Tim moves to each bite mark in turn, pressing harder and harder as the bites get older until Jason is pushing into Tim's other hand. They're staring into each other's eyes in just the right way to make the feeling get stronger, to make Jason get *higher* on all the sex that's right there for him.

What *does* he want to do with Tim? He wants to reward him for being just *that* good in the spar, but that doesn't necessarily mean a blow job. His dick is pointing out very true and wonderful things about Tim's mouth and ass, but he's not sure how that will fly *when* Bruce starts joining in. Tim loves to blow *him*, but that doesn't feel like *quite* enough—

Except for the image he gets of lying on his back for it while Tim crouches over him, while Bruce eats Tim's *ass*—

Oh, fuck yeah. Jason pushes a hand into Tim's hair and gives it a *good* grip—

"Oh. Yes, Jay—"

"You know how good you looked today, Tim?"

"I—was trying hard. I still can't actually *feel* what I'm doing with my hands except for flashes, pressure—"

"I couldn't look away from you and Bruce. Couldn't tear my *eyes* away."

"It was... a good spar," Tim says, and smiles at him again, stepping closer and pushing up onto his toes to kiss and lick the bite marks, suck them a little—

"Oh, yeah. Like that," Jason says, and thinks about closing his eyes—

And doesn't, because Bruce is right there looking at him, hungry and *happy*, and Jason knows it's because they're doing this here, that Bruce has been waiting to *have* this here—

But it's not *time* for Bruce, yet, and one part of Jason is screaming about how it shouldn't *ever* be and another part is screaming that it's *always* time—

And Tim is sucking kisses all over Jason's chest, moving around closer and closer to his nipples—and veering off to scrape his teeth over Jason's pecs.

Jason snorts. "Tease."

Tim pulls back *just* enough to let Jason see the little bit of *sly* in his eyes before he *darts* back in and bites Jason's right nipple.

"Fuck, that's good. That's—nnh. Love your mouth, kid..."

Tim hums and *sucks*—and then alternates sucking and biting for long enough that Jason's hard-on goes from being interested to being *just* a little demanding. Jason toes off his boots before thinking about it, and there's a little spike of fear and shock in him, but—

Yeah, he's staying a while. When he tugs, Tim moves to his *other* nipple and repeats the process, and when he *looks*...

Bruce is staring at his wet nipple, and almost seems to be trying to *will* it to get harder—or maybe just to get closer to *his* mouth. And Bruce rests his hands on Tim's shoulders. *Lightly*—

Tim shivers again and sucks hard, moaning something that sounds like a question but *feels* like a statement, like maybe he just *needs* to let Jason know that Bruce is touching him and that that's a *serious* thing, even though it's still—

No, it's not innocent, at all.

"You've been getting him used to your touch, Bruce...?"

"I never like treating people like horses which need to be gentled, but it's something I seem to find myself doing... often."

"Heh. Well... bitter with the sweet," Jason says, and pulls Tim back away from him altogether. His lips are wet and his eyes are already just a little hazed. Dazed.

Inspiring.

Jason steps back and strips off his pants and boxer briefs.

"Jason," Tim says, and it sounds like 'beautiful' and 'please' and a lot of other things Tim still has enough of his control not to say—

"Jay," and Bruce tightens his grip *just* slightly on Tim's shoulders—enough to make Tim tense and blink.

"Forget yourself for a minute there, Tim?"

"I—yes—"

"*Go* with that," Jason says and gets down on his back on the mats, resting on his elbows—

And Bruce releases Tim, who immediately drops to his knees between Jason's legs and starts scanning him, going over him like a boy-shaped supercomputer on a *mission*.

"Make me harder, Tim."

Tim moans—cuts himself off and shakes his head before wrapping both hands around Jason's dick. "Did you have... preferences?"

Jason smiles and tilts his head to one side and then the other. "Yeah, I *think* I do," and he arches his hips up just slightly—

"Oh, I really love. I love. This touch. The right to have this touch. I—Jay," Tim says, and there's a pleading look in his eyes when he starts to stroke, a hungry and needy and *Tim* look, and it makes Jason want to beat down everyone who ever turned *away* from whatever milder, quieter versions of that look Tim gave them and makes him want to thank them *profusely*, because—

"All mine."

"*Yes*," Tim says, and now there's determination in that look, something like anger—

And Bruce drops to his knees behind Tim and *strokes* Tim's shoulders, massages them a little—and possibly gets off a little at the feel of them working for what Tim's doing to Jason's dick. Bruce's eyes are *only* on Tim right now, focused on the back of Tim's neck for the flush—maybe—as his fingers brush Tim's throat in a way that's about as accidental as a gunshot from a trained sniper.

Tim's breathing hitches for each brush and Jason's *pretty* sure that he's not completely aware of the way he's stroking and squeezing Jason faster, more purposefully—

Such *good* little hands, but—

"Come up here and suck my nipples a little more, Tim."

Tim nods and does it—*not* letting go—

In the same way as Bruce just kind of lets his hands *slide* down Tim's back. He's going to need Tim's shirt off soon. *Jason's* gonna need that shirt off soon, but right now he has Tim's mouth, and he's a good, good boy who isn't *just* sucking.

He's mouthing, nibbling, biting *hard* every now and again as he *works* Jason, and the only possible response is to arch up into that touch as much as he can and push his hands back into Tim's hair, letting his abs do a little of the work so he can still see everything—

See *Bruce*, and the way his hands are moving on Tim's back, and—God, *teeth*, and that sharply *electric* rush between his nipples and his dick, that warm and *tight* feeling between his dick and every other part of his body—

His skin is already prickling with fresh sweat and they haven't gotten *close* to the main event. Unless—

How much control does he *want* to have once Bruce starts touching Tim for real? How much does he want to be able to think?

Bruce hits a *good* spot and Tim groans against Jason's chest, shudders all over and tenses up again—

"Don't do that, Tim."

Tim nods and squeezes his eyes shut, deliberately relaxing himself—

"It took me nearly a year to be able to do that effectively," Bruce says, voice low and admiring...

Heh. "Maybe you just didn't have the right kind of *motivation*, B," and Jason yanks Tim off and up into a kiss that feels like a finally, tasting something a little sweet and illusory in Tim's mouth before coaxing that tongue into his own mouth so he can suck on it a little, and a little more than that. And then he slows things down—enough that Tim can let go of Jason's dick and shift into a straddle of Jason's waist and *stroke* Jason's chest.

The touches are still controlled, and that's starting to be a *problem*. He wants the clinging, the scratches, those hot moments when Tim's digging in with his short nails like he's trying to get a good enough grip that he can rip Jason's skin off in more ways than the metaphorical.

And he knows exactly how to get them. He slips his hands out of Tim's hair and strokes down his back, sliding over Bruce's hands with a shiver he can't bank before getting to Tim's waist.

Workout shorts are light and *weak* things, nothing like the uniform Tim'll be wearing again *soon*. Bruce could rip Tim's off in a heartbeat, and so could Jason with a little more leverage, but—not that. He pushes them down, instead, taking the *high* noise Tim makes into his mouth for his own.

You're bare now, he wants to say. Bruce can *see* you—and what are you gonna do about it? But not *yet*. Maybe after the jock comes off—

And oh, those are Bruce's hands working on that *right* now, moving slowly and gently while Tim shakes and kisses Jason *harder*—

Jason pulls back and *bites* Tim's lip when he tries to come in for more. "Easy."

"I—okay? I'm not. Sure."

"We are—and you *will* be," Jason says, smiling to make that a little softer and trying to will a little of his dick-led confidence into Tim, trying to make him *feel* it...

But words matter, too.

"You seriously *don't* know how good you look like this—sprawled out and flushed, mouth open—"

Tim closes it and *blushes*, turning a deeper red that just—

"And sometimes I just wanna spank your little ass until you *really* turn red for me," and Jason grips Tim's ass and spreads him a little—

"Oh. Oh, please, I don't—Jay—"

"Are you looking, Bruce?"

"Memorizing," Bruce says, and strokes Jason's fingers before moving them—

"Oh, *God*—" Tim squeezes his eyes shut again, tenses—relaxes and *pants*—

"Bruce...?"

"I'm stroking his cleft. I admit to being somewhat... focused in my touches."

Which means he's teasing that little hole, which in *turn* means that Tim is thinking about all the *other* things Bruce could be doing—

And making a lot of soft and incredibly sexy little noises which really shouldn't be *anything* of the kind. The kind of noises that suggest—fucking *scream* about what Tim will be like *after* he's fucked, when his eyes are still closed and his body won't stop clenching around what he's speared on— "God, you're making me crazy, Tim—"

"*Please*, Jay. He's. He's not—"

"He's not *me*, I know. But he knows what you like. And what you can *take*. Right, Bruce?"

"It's a subject which has held the lion's share of my attention for some time, now," Bruce says, and—

Tim's eyes fly open wide— "Oh *fuck*—"

*Agreed*, but— "Finger inside you?"

"Y-yes. Just—not far. Oh. He's *inside* me, Jay—"

"Feeling your heat, Tim. *Knowing* it a little. Does it burn?"

Tim nods—shakes his head and then nods again. *While* he's tensing and relaxing himself almost with the same rhythm of his breathing. It's fucking *terrifying* to watch, and it makes Jason's dick *twitch*.

Jason licks his lips. "You know what I want, Tim."

Tim opens his eyes, and the plea in them is desperate, wet and soft, somehow. *Young*—

"Then let yourself feel it. *All* of it. Because... it's fucking beautiful to *watch*."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut again and nods, biting his lip and pushing back against Bruce's hand—

And the breath Bruce takes is shaky and manages to seem louder and *be* more important than the bats, the generators—

But Tim makes another one of those sounds and that cuts right through everything, reminding Jason—of what he wants right *now*.

"Pull out, Bruce—"

"Not... just yet. Please," he says, and cups Tim's hip with his free hand. "I'd like to... Tim. I'd like very much to give you pleasure."

Tim makes a sound like he's taken a hit—

He doesn't *make* sounds when he takes hits, and Jason's dick wants him to know that Tim should be *on* him, pressed to him for that slight and *cautious* rock, that *obedient* rock—

Jason strokes Tim's hair and cups the back of his head. "Will you let him?"

"Yes," Tim says, and this time when he opens his eyes he looks clear, *focused*—and then they go wide and he shudders all over, moaning long and low—

"I've noticed," Bruce says, "that you don't often spare much time to stimulate Tim's prostate as opposed to simply preparing him."

Jason smiles and pets Tim a little more, shifting until he's braced on one elbow and his abs can let him focus on his *dick*. "And now you've got me thinking of all those times when you would finger me until I came cursing you *and* all your ancestors. Guess I just get distracted easier than you do, B."

Bruce nods as if Jason had just given him a piece of *important* information and squeezes Tim's hip before letting his hand move on Tim's back, over to Tim's other hip, down and maybe between Tim's thighs—

"*Nnh*—please. Oh. Oh, God—"

"Tell me, Tim—"

"My—sac. His hand. I'm not sure *why* it's so easy to tell the relative size of Bruce's hand with my sac, but. It is, and I—may I...?" And Tim rests his head on Jason's chest, ear right over Jason's heart— "Oh... please."

"God, yeah, Tim. You just... take a minute," Jason says, and wonders if Tim will try to measure out an *exact* minute —"Take longer. And don't be afraid to make those noises for me. For *us*."

"Yes. Please," Bruce says, and whatever he does makes Tim moan again, scratch a little at the mats—

"Heh. Maybe *you* should tell me what you're doing, B."

"I've begun a light thrusting motion, and am manipulating his scrotum."

"Mm," and Jason keeps stroking and petting Tim's hair, occasionally slipping down to the back of his neck and squeezing there. Every time he does Tim gets a little... looser. More pliant. More ready? Maybe, but they're taking it a little easy for now, easing Tim into this as much as possible—

"I haven't had this. I haven't felt—this," Bruce says, frowning and shaking his head.

"Feel *free* to elaborate. Dad."

Bruce looks up sharply, *warningly*, and the only possible response to that is to squeeze the back of Tim's neck again and raise his eyebrows.

"I only meant... it's not. It's difficult to *describe*," and Bruce shifts, maybe reaches—

"*Oh*—"

"His penis, now. He's only half-hard, and I confess that I can't accept that," and Bruce doesn't need to describe *this*—

Jason can see it in the way his shoulder's moving, *hear* it in the way Tim pants for every stroke and then starts crooning a little, long sounds with a lot of o's and n's. He's working his hips a little more seriously now, and really, there's only so much fear and confusion can do against being thirteen years old and in the hands of someone *truly* dedicated. "Tell me more about how this is different, B. I think Tim should hear it."

"I've been considering how to describe it. It's been such a long time since I've had to *doubt* the purely physical desire you've felt for me... but Tim is different. If he ever truly wanted any part of me that way, it would've been the Batman... and I wonder if that's what I should be providing."

"Good question. Tim?"

Tim rubs his face against Jason's chest in something that feels like a 'no' *and* a 'please.'

"C'mon, freakboy. This is *important*—"

"Lies. It would—*ohn*. It would be a lie, and I can't—there are too many of those. Already."

Jason blinks. "How do you mean? Be *specific*," Jason says, and squeezes Tim's neck again—

"He doesn't want to touch—he wants *you*, Jay, and I do, too, and I don't understand—oh, *fuck*, Bruce, *Bruce*—"

"I don't understand how you could doubt my desire for you, Tim. And I feel driven to provide incontrovertible proof. Shall I offer a fantasy while I stimulate you this way?"

"I—what. No, you just—Jason, please *let* him, and I'll be all right, I'll—" Tim *shouts*, tensing in a *much* better way—

"I thought you knew, kid. I'm not giving you up for even a *minute*," Jason says, arching enough that he's painting Tim's chest and upper abdomen with pre-come—

"I have been jealous, Tim. Of every moment you've touched Jason, of every moment you've looked at him and heard his voice while I was alone. Even now it's an ache in me—but it's soothed by *this*. Your lithe and beautiful body that changes every day, your voice when you cry out, this pleasure you offer to Jason on the *altar* of your body. I. Forgive me this," Bruce says, shifting—

He's pulling out and *moving*, pulling Tim back until his head is flush to Jason's mound—

"Bruce. What—*fuck*," and Tim is managing to sound both scandalized and lashed *down* on the fucking rock of his own arousal. Which—

Jason should've known that he wouldn't have to say anything to get Bruce on his wavelength. For this, for *sex*—they've always been together *enough*, always been close to each other, and if sometimes that meant they were too close for anything *like* Jason's comfort...

Well, he *has* wanted Tim to feel this. *Just* this, because being honestly helpless does funny damned things to arousal, makes the body fight harder to *take* its pleasure from whatever is actually happening, and the only thing to do, the only thing that can make it okay—

"It's all right, Tim," Jason says, reaching down so he can keep petting Tim some. "You know you—that that feeling does it for you—"

Tim sobs and *grips* Jason's hips. His own are working hard for Bruce, for Bruce's tongue deep within him—

"Yeah, hold on tight. Just..." Honesty. Give it *up*—"I know you think this is just because I won't let Bruce touch me—"

Bruce groans and *jerks* Tim closer—

Tim sobs again and holds *on*—

"Easy, *both* of you. I—" Jason laughs softly and moves his hand so he can stroke Tim's face, brush tears from the corners of his eyes and bring them down to Tim's mouth... "The *truth* is that I can't wait, anymore. Can't hold on to all the reasons why I *haven't* been letting Bruce at me. It's always there and always *possible*, and—heh. I'm only a man."

"Jay. This feeling. I can't—there's nothing I can *do*," Tim says, and turns, lifts his head to look at Jason—

To let Jason *see* him. "I know there isn't. There never *is*, and that's part of what makes it so fucking *attractive*. You've gotta remember that *what* you are is at least as hot as *who* you are, Tim."

Bruce groans again, and the angle is just good enough to let him see those huge fucking hands flexing on Tim's hips as *he* tries to control himself and maybe convince himself to *just* do this as opposed to kneeling up and shoving *in*—

Jason shivers, and there's a question in Tim's eyes under all of the pleading—

"It's *okay*, Tim. I need you to know just how *much* Bruce wants you, and you need to know it, too. It changes everything, right down to... God, right down to how the two of you are on the *street*."

"Power. I. There's a... power?"

Jason grins. "God, you're good. *Yes*. Yeah, that's just it. And just because it's a power that leads to you being on your knees with a face full of my *crotch* doesn't mean that it's not a *good* power."

And at first Jason thinks that's another sob—and another one after *that*, but they keep going, and Jason realizes that Tim's laughing, that it sounds terrible *and* ridiculously hot—

That it's making Bruce grunt like a fucking *animal*—

That *he's* gripping and pulling on Tim's hair until—

Fuck, such sweet heat, wet and slick, tight the way only Tim's *throat* can be, because he hadn't waited to take a deeper breath before sucking Jason *in*, choking off his own laughter—

And staring *deep* into Jason's eyes, sharing the kid in him, the adult in him, the *Robin* in him—

"You make me feel—" Jason gasps on a laugh and strokes Tim's face, brushing at the deep concentration line and wondering a little about destiny, inevitability— "I love you for letting me have this, Tim. I'll always—fuck, your *mouth*—"

Tim's making noises deep in his chest, noises for him and noises for Bruce—

"I promise—I'm *pretty* sure it can't get any more fucked up—"

Tim narrows his eyes and pulls *off*—

Not far. Just enough to *get* a breath before going back down, taking Jason in where he belongs, where it's as right and irresistible as it has to be—

"God, fuck, *Tim*—"

And Jason groans because his own eyes are closed now and he can't quite figure out *how* to get past the wall of feeling to open them, take more of this—

"Mine. *Mine*—oh, mother*fucker*—"

Teeth and suction at once, and the fucking full-*bodied* clench of Tim's throat, the way it's working for him, working *him*—

His eyes are open again and he can look, focus on the way Tim's eyes are dazed again, on the way he's drooling for this and for what Bruce is *doing* to him— "No. Escape. Never any fucking escape, no matter where you go, what you do—fucking *feel* this, Tim—"

Tim nods almost frantically and sucks harder, *holding* it and shaking all over—

No, the *sounds* he's making are frantic, muffled and not *going* anywhere, and—

Yeah, Bruce only has *one* hand on Tim's hips now. The other one's out of sight and anything *but* out of mind, anything—

("I wish—perhaps this will be easier, Jay, perhaps this touch will let you—")

Do this to another kid, *take* this from another kid, and is it better that he couldn't have ever done it alone? That he *had* to come back to Bruce when things started getting serious—

Perfect—

Jason groans and starts working Tim's head on his dick, teasing himself with the rhythmic loss of Tim's throat and surrendering to the fuck the way Tim has to, the way it always *works*—

And there's a voice in his mind speaking of love, alternately low and high until it blends into something that can never be soothing because it's always going to be *true*—

Never *escape*—

Tim seizes and shudders hard, coughing—

And Jason knows he's coming, and has just enough of his own control left that he can hold Tim still and die a little for the flutter and flex of Tim's throat against the head of his dick, for the long and *hungry* sound Bruce makes—

A moment—

*Please*—

Another—

And then Tim *is* still—save for the way he's pulling against Jason's hand and trying to take more, to *give* more—

"*Tim*. Tim, just—don't fucking stop. I *need* you," Jason says, easing his grip and letting Tim go to fucking *town* on him.

His eyes are closed again and he can't keep his hips from bucking, can't even slow *down*—

*Bruce*, sitting Jason up and pulling until Jason's back is pressed against his chest. Hot breath on his ear—

"Thank you," Bruce says, kissing him and stroking him the way Jason's always loved, so fucking possessive and *endless* with his big, hard hands until Jason's skin feels raw, stinging in the air until the feeling *merges* with all the heat taking him higher—

Making him need this, always *need* this—

"Thank you for letting me see that I could want both of you, so beautiful..."

Tim digs his short nails in against Jason's hips and *rakes* down, making Jason buck harder—

And then one of those hands is between Jason's legs, *just* cupping his sac for a hot moment that makes Jason shiver before working it the way Jason likes—

Needs—

"God, *please*," Jason says, and isn't sure which of them he's begging for, or if it's maybe for the sense that he's too warm and anything but alone, that he's in a place he'd promised he'd never be again—

Not like this—

And the fear and anger for that twists around the base of his spine and *yanks* until he's bending himself up further—

Bruce holds on *tight*, and he can only just reach to hold Tim's head, stroke it like he's blind—

God, he needs to *feel*—"Bruce, I need—fuck, I need him *closer*—"

And he's barely *focusing*, but he can see Tim's eyes get wider, see him trying to shift his body around while still sucking hard—

"So good, so—it's—" Jason laughs again and shudders, gets kissed on the back of his neck by Bruce over and *over*—"It's all right, Tim, I need—need to get off more than—fuck, *swallowing* around me—"

*Too* good, and it makes Jason throw his head back, moan when he finally *does* get a good grip on the back of Tim's head again, when Tim starts squeezing Jason's sac *hard* with one hand and reaching up and back to *cover* Jason's hand with his other—

"There's never..." Bruce moans softly and presses a kiss to the *side* of Jason's throat— "There's never any such thing as being close *enough*."

He's right, and Jason *knows* that, but—

But maybe Tim has the right idea, because it *feels* right to reach back with *his* other hand, cup the back of *Bruce's* head—

"*Yes*, Jay—"

"Yeah, fuck—fuck, so *close*—"

Tim pulls *back*, gasping air in through his nose for a second of torture, tease—

Down again and this time Jason can't keep himself from fucking himself up, in, *taking* Tim's mouth because it's his, because it's that good—

So fucking—

*Teeth* again, and he thinks—

Knows me, has to know all of me now, every little thing, every—

And then everything's gone save for the feel of himself losing it, pumping deep into Tim's mouth, his throat—

Losing everything again, and he knows he's shouting and clutching, knows he's shaking all the fuck *over*—

Knows absolutely *nothing*—

For a moment—

And then he's gasping and panting, trying to sit up straight and pushing against the wall of Bruce—

Tim. *Holding* Jason in his mouth—not his throat, which would be the best *and* worst kind of torture right now—

Jason tugs on Tim's hair instead of talking and Tim pulls off—and brushes Jason's hand out of his hair before kneeling up and turning away—and feeling Bruce tense up behind him just kind of *underlines* the wrong of that.

"Tim, c'mere—"

"I—I'd rather not. Right now."

And when's the last time Tim's said no to something? *Anything*? Jason frowns and tugs on the arm Bruce has around his chest until Bruce lets go and he can crawl over to Tim, resting a hand on Tim's shoulder and the other on Tim's thigh. "Talk to me—"

"Um. No. Sorry," Tim says, head still turned and jaw *tight*.

Jason squeezes with both hands—too hard, because Tim is wincing. He eases up and moves his hand from Tim's thigh to Tim's face, turning it toward him as gently as he can with Tim *resisting*—

Tim makes a sound and lets Jason do it, and his eyes—wide and kind of fucking *betrayed*, and that—

Part of Jason wants to *celebrate* that, because now Tim knows what it's really like, what it's always *been* like deep down inside Jason where nothing ever really changes or gets *better*—

It's just that the rest of him—

He pulls Tim into a hug that gets resisted, too—until it doesn't, and Tim's wrapping his arms around Jason and holding tight.

Fuck. "Still think I'm a good man?"

Tim shivers and clutches tighter for a moment—says something Jason can't catch.

"What was that?"

"I'd rather not. Repeat myself."

Jason strokes Tim's back, and there's a part of him which is only focused on the fact that they'd somehow never gotten Tim's *shirt* off, but—there's no way Tim wants to be any more naked than he is right now. In *any* way, shape, or form—but.

He needs Tim to talk. Bruce does, *too*—whether or not he knows it.

"Please, Tim. I—I need you to tell me what's on your mind—"

"It won't make—it's irrelevant," Tim says, pulling on that cold thing he wears for the street and, Jason thinks, for home, too.

Jason sighs—

Tim stiffens and starts to pull back—

"No, not that, either," Jason says, stroking down to Tim's hips and gripping a little, tugging until Tim's over his lap—

"God. Jay—Jason. It's just that you're the only one who's ever—you're the only *one*," and Jason thinks that if he could see Tim's eyes right now they'd probably kill him.

At least some part of him. But— "I don't have to be the only one, Tim. You know that now, don't you?"

"Is *that* what—" Tim kind of chokes on his own laugh. "I don't know *what* I know right now—other than the fact that you're the only one who's ever shown—a fucking *interest*, and it's hard enough to get used to that, to be the person you want me to be—"

"I *want* all of you, kid—"

"And that's another thing. You have a seriously—" Tim pulls back *just* enough to look Jason in the eye. "You have a very, very fucked up idea of what childhood means."

"I know I do. For kids like *you*. And kids like the one I was, too. You knew that going into this."

Tim's eyes flash with anger—and then seem to get *overrun* with humor. "All right, I suppose I did. It's just standing *out* right now. Loudly. Like—like a thumb that's been chopped *off*."

Jason grins. "But you're going to be prepared. For *everything* this life can throw at you."

"I—if I were any more prepared right now, Jay, it's entirely possible that I'd be *cooked*, or—all right, that metaphor got away from me—"

Jason laughs a little—

"Jay, please. I. I'm *scared*, and I know that you don't want me to be, that I have to be stronger than this, but I'd thought, maybe, that I didn't have to be strong for. For the personal things."

The personal is *political*, offers the ghost of a girl who'd had a pussy like the world's friendliest vise and hairier legs than his own—Jason shakes the memory off and strokes Tim's face a little, until some of the hardness leaves his eyes and he's only looking at Jason, pleading *with* Jason for an answer Jason can't give. "You have to tell me what scares you."

"You'll only tell me that I'm not allowed to *be* scared of it—or worse, you'll *convince* me not to be scared, even though the fear is a perfectly rational one—"

"And it's yours," Jason says, and spares himself a moment to think about Bruce, still kneeling right over there, still dressed—and absolutely waiting for them. "I haven't let you have too many things of your own, have I?"

Tim frowns. "I'm not—I mean, I don't need—no. I *do* need it. Just—a little privacy within my own mind, a little *space*. And I know that you can't let me have it—at least not until I'm Robin for real, and maybe not even then, but the *feelings*—"

"Can't get in the way—"

"I just don't see how this *helps*, Jay—"

"You're making things easier, every day. You're—" Jason shakes his head. "Maybe you can't see it, but you're *hope*. Every moment you're strong, every moment you're *happy*. I need that, and Bruce does, too."

Tim frowns a little harder and looks past Jason's shoulder.

Jason squeezes Tim in anticipation of the shudder, but—it doesn't come. He raises his eyebrows.

"I will stipulate that... that Bruce wants me, for some reason—"

"For who and what you are, as Jason said," Bruce says, and *that* gets a shudder—

"I don't think I want to know what I am—what the two of you *think* I am," and Tim growls and shakes his head. "I—look, I'm all right. I just think that I should go."

"I disagree," Jason says, squeezing Tim's hips. "What you *should* do is tell me—"

"I don't want—to be alone," Tim says, and the first half of that came out strong and serious, but not the second half, which... is understandable. Completely, because—

Because the part of Jason which wants to slap Tim in the back of the head for being *irrational* is really missing the point entirely. "You don't want to get so used to the good things that you'll be weak *when* all the bad comes down."

"And—I don't appreciate being shunted off to Bruce like a hand-me-down. Or... a hand-me-*up*, I suppose."

And really, it's possible that that should've been at the *top* of that little list—as reasonable objections go—but it's *also* possible that, if it had been, Jason would have an entirely different boy in his lap. "First things first, kid—the *only* thing that makes the bad times workable is the fact that you proved to yourself, once, that they *could* be good. Especially if you've proved that they could be good in part because of something you did."

"That didn't seem to help *you* much, before, Jay."

"Point," Jason says, and smiles a little ruefully. "But then I had some—heh—*grave* resentments to work through... and the only therapy I got before *you* was from a woman who was just fine with me being that kind of angry."

Tim looks *seriously* doubtful... but Jason would bet that has more to do with the idea that he might've done something to help Jason than with anything else. And... he's going to put his money on that.

He gestures with his chin a little. "What do you think I would've done without you, hunh? Tracked down some *other* kid who knew as much as you did? Who was as *serious* as you were? Who could follow orders and *learn* as well as you did? The real world—this one, anyway—doesn't work that way. I'm not saying that you'll never be alone again—I would *never* say that. I'm just saying that if you go about things the *right* way, if you keep *taking* what you want even when it scares the hell out of you..." Jason raises his eyebrows again.

And this time, when Tim glances over at Bruce, his expression shifts to something... it's the kind of helpless Jason can *work* with.

"You have to fight for it. You have to fight *for* it, Tim. For all the good things you can stand—"

"And I presume you'll be taking your own advice?"

'I'm here, aren't I?' wouldn't be good enough for this. "That's the plan. That's—part—of why I'm pushing this. I want you both to have each other, because that's the way the partnership works *best*. He has to know you won't leave him by choice, you have to know he won't *ditch* you by choice—"

"But it didn't *work*, Jay! I—" Tim pushes back a little more, resisting the pull Jason has on his hips. "If anything, it went *worse* with you than it did with Dick—"

"You don't have the same weaknesses I had, Tim. And Bruce... heh. Learns *his* lessons, too," Jason says, and *yanks* Tim close again. "I'm not shunting you off. I'm not giving you up. I just want—*need* you to have more. And yeah, you having more *does* help with me doing the same in ways that barely have anything to do with who you are as a person, but that's not the *whole* story, and it would be wrong—and stupid—to treat it that way. And you're anything but stupid."

"I don't... want to fall in love with anyone else," and Tim isn't looking at Bruce at all, this time, but he doesn't have to. Bruce is Bruce, and he'd heard every last bit of that, including the miles of it below the surface.

Jason raises his eyebrows. "Do you mean you don't want to belong to anyone else?"

He gets another frown for that— "It's the same thing—"

"Really not—"

"For *me*, Jay. For me it's the same thing," Tim says, and puts his hands on Jason's shoulders, moves them to Jason's face, his hair for a moment, and then back down to his shoulders again. "And you're going to say that it doesn't work that way, and you'll be right that it *shouldn't* work that way, and I'm going to try to live, try to *be* the way you want me to be..."

"You think you'll fail."

Tim smiles, bright, sharp, and just a little too old—even for Robin. "Oh, no. It wouldn't be so bad if I thought I would fail. I think... you've already made me into a new person, and I've *been* getting used to that person. But you weren't done, and I have to live with that. Let me go home? Just... for now?"

The ache of this... he doesn't know what to do with it, doesn't know how to make it fit with either the screaming, jealous, and fucking *vindictive* kid in him or the adult who only wants everything and intends to get it. It's just there, hovering over some middle ground that hasn't been charted yet. A bright little spark of pain in a field of black.

Jason nods. "Tell Alfred we said to drop you off," he says, letting go, and Tim stands up and moves to change into his street clothes. A part of Jason is only thinking thoughts about Tim's *ass*, and how it's probably still a little wet from Bruce's spit—

The rest is wondering what he's going to *get* by giving Tim room to be—himself, for just a little while. He hasn't exactly done that, and that *had* been part of the plan.

It was—and he has to cope with this—a seriously fucked up plan.

He watches Tim move up the stairs in an easy jog, and then he turns to Bruce—who is absolutely waiting. It's just that he's also giving Jason a *sympathetic* look—

"Do we always wind up having minds of our own, B?"

"Despite one's best efforts to the contrary. Of course... that's part of the appeal."

Heh, right. Jason stands up and moves close to Bruce, offering his hand. "You say that like you *haven't* wanted to reprogram me on at least fifteen different occasions."

"I tried not to count," Bruce says, letting Jason pull him up and close—

"Which means you totally *did* count and just don't want to tell me the number. That's fine—I *don't* wanna know."

"Jay. He'll come back to you."

"Oh, I know he will. I—*that's* part of the *problem*, B. He shouldn't come back to me, at all. He shouldn't come back *here*. But he'll do both, and that's just the way he is—and the way I helped him to be," Jason says, cupping Bruce's face. "I'm pretty sure I fucked up."

Bruce gives him a *seriously* rueful look and cups Jason's hips. "I'm afraid I was following your lead."

Jason snickers. "Never *do* that, B—no, okay, do that *more*. Just... not with this. Because I'm pretty damned fucked in the head about it. I don't know what I'm doing, at all. I don't... I have to *leave*—"

"You don't—"

"I have to leave *him*, with you, and I just wanted... no, I wanted to *watch* him with you, because my dick happens to think that's *one* of the better ideas I've had. I also want you and him to be as tight as we were at our best, but that's... I don't know. Smaller, maybe."

Bruce nods, and pulls Jason against him, letting Jason feel—a jock.

"That thing killing you right about now?"

"It's excruciating, but I can survive it. Jay... you have to know that I want your happiness—"

"And his?"

"I'm not at all sure what it would look like, beyond those glimpses I've seen him offer you—mostly when you weren't looking."

"I could feel it, though. Feel..." Jason sighs and reaches down into Bruce's shorts, tugging the jock away as gently as he can. "All of it. All the time. He loves me."

"Yes. He... Jay, your hand. Your hand is enough, but—"

"You want more. I know," and Jason leans in to take a kiss. It's slow and it's *hard*, and Jason can *hear* Tim whimpering through it, feel it in his skin and his not-actually-ready-for-business dick. "Tell me more about how he'll come back to me, to *us*—"

"I'm not—hn. I'm not sure about the latter—"

"I pushed him too far, too fast. I—it shouldn't *be* a huge deal that he said no to me and had to leave, but our relationship... I'm gonna keep going with fucked up."

"He loves you. Almost certainly more than anything... anything else in his life."

"Except for *Robin*, and I think I've *always* been jealous of *that* little bastard," and Bruce is huge in his hand, perfect and warm, *slick*—"God, you feel good. So good."

"Jay. Your hand is..." Bruce's laugh is breathy and low. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by the differences."

"Mm. You're exactly the same. Making me want you, need you—" Jason gives Bruce a squeeze before letting go—

"*Jay*—"

"Easy, easy. I know... I know," Jason says, shaking his head and pulling Bruce's shorts down, the jock and the boxer-briefs— "How in the *hell* am I supposed to deal with you being right there. Looking at me. *Thinking* at me—"

"I do try to keep my attempts at telepathy to a minimum—"

Jason laughs and drops to his knees. "You're like that with him, aren't you? You show him the man you are?"

"Helplessly," and Bruce cups Jason's face for a moment before petting and stroking Jason's hair, tugging at it a little—

"That different, too?" He doesn't really want to wrap his hand around the base of Bruce's dick, but—it's been a while since he's had something this big, and—

And the thing in his head which has been counting the days needs to shut the hell *up*—

Jason sucks the head to shut *everyone* up, takes it in and licks, sucks *hard*—

Bruce sighs and strokes Jason's head faster and a little wilder for a moment before slowing down again— "Your hair seems thicker, but it might be—an illusion brought on by insecurity, the sense that I shouldn't have this at all—Jay."

Jason nods and takes more, pumping Bruce's dick a little until Bruce starts to thrust, short and *mostly* slow strokes into his mouth—

He's sweating a little again, starting to really *feel* his nakedness, availability—

And it's the same old question that always bubbles up for this: What if this is the time Bruce breaks too *much*? What if he loses control more than Jason can *take*?

"I want. To have this with Tim. I."

Images for that. Tim on his knees and *reaching* a little, or Tim sitting down in one of the wing chairs in the study while Bruce guides himself into that mouth—

"To suck him, I mean. Or—both, of course, of course you know—"

Bruce lifting Tim by the hips, *pulling* him into Bruce's mouth—

"I can't help but wonder how I would've felt about him without you. He's so *small*, Jay, so quiet and controlled—

Jason pulls off with a wet sound and licks a little bit, up and around, down to his own hand until he can mash his tongue between Bruce's cock and the heel of his palm—

Bruce grunts. "A punishment? Or. You've had years to develop your... sexuality. I've only had my memories..."

One more lick and then he can *think*. "I have to—I need every inch of you, B," and Jason's voice is heavy to his own ears, *ridiculously* insinuating—

"There's nothing you can't have of me, Jay—"

"Oh, don't say that. You know I'll ask for impossible things—"

"*Please*—"

"You loved him in my world. I don't know how long it took or how much of it was gratitude... but you loved him. It's not just me."

Bruce shivers and *clutches* Jason's hair for a *moment*, and Jason has to wonder if the Jason from this world had maybe not bothered teaching Bruce not to be polite—

But then both of Bruce's hands are *deep* in his hair, clutching and pulling—

"Fuck yeah," Jason says, and goes down to his own hand, fighting back the gag reflex in another reflex he wasn't sure he still *had*—

And he never thought he'd be laughing for this. In every fantasy he's had of going to Bruce again, after everything he'd said and done, there'd been too much anger and pain for anything like the *lightness* he's feeling, the way *this* need is buoying him up, almost—

God, *Bruce*, and fucking his own face on Bruce's dick is the necessary thing, the *only* thing, because Bruce catches his rhythm immediately and makes it his own—

"My love..."

Jason gets his free hand on Bruce's hip, strokes around to his ass and thinks about it—

Tries to think about something other than the dick in his mouth, the weight and slide and *push* of it—

He *always* likes it, and Jason slips his fingers into Bruce's cleft, warm and faintly damp with sweat—

"Jay, *yes*—"

Jason groans and slips in with one, and Bruce is just as tight and *hot* as he should be—

Tim wrapped around him—

Tim bent in half and screaming for him, bent over the horse and screaming because it was too *much*—

And when Bruce clenches around him and shudders, Jason knows Bruce is a lot closer than the *image* he's been presenting—which is *also* as it should be. No one has as much control, no one can do so much with—

So much. Jason laughs again and thinks about Tim choking off his own laughter—

*Yes*, and doing it sends a *jolt* to his dick, makes him tense and need in a way that has nothing to *do* with his dick—

Tim, he'll say one day, sex is *confusing*. You've probably noticed that already, but I just want you to know that it never actually gets any easier. The trick is to *enjoy* the confusion—

Enjoy *this*, because Bruce is moaning quietly, cutting himself off periodically with little gasps as he fucks Jason's throat, as Jason *helps* him fuck his throat—

"*Please*, Jay—oh—"

Because *shoving* in with his finger is the best way to get *that* sound—

And get Bruce to thrust *hard* into his throat and stay right there for a beat—

Another, perhaps to *let* Jason brace himself—

And then Jason stays still and *takes* it, letting Bruce move him as fast as he wants, as hard as he *needs*. Bruce is grunting now, muttering something that could be love or his name or something else altogether—

*Come*, Jason thinks, and tries his own version of telepathy, working his finger in a twisting motion to maximize the burn that has to feel so *sweet* right now—

"*Jay*—"

And that was loud, perfect, and maybe better than the feel of Bruce *holding* him skewered on his dick while he twitches and comes, pulling back just far enough—and *right* on time—to let Jason taste him a little, roll it under his tongue and spit a little back out to make things messier.

Better.

It's over when Bruce tugs his hands out of Jason's hair and starts to stroke, to comfort and soothe as he *ruthlessly* brings his breathing back under control. Jason pulls back and licks his lips, licks Bruce clean for those last shudders, that last—

"Please."

"I hear you," Jason says, and stands up, letting Bruce pull him into his arms and thinking vague thoughts about patrol—

He still needs to actually *read* those reports—

Bruce laughs and pushes Jason back, a wild smile on his face.

Jason raises his eyebrows—

"You were thinking of Tim again, perhaps?"

"Not *just* then," Jason says, because admitting it is better than not.

Bruce nods, letting the smile fade from his face and *flare* behind his eyes. "Then what? What made you leave me?"

"Ah..." Fuck. "Patrol," and Jason shakes his head and snorts. "I think I might be getting old, B."

"Were you ever young?"

And *only* Bruce could ask a question like that and have it be honest. Innocent. "Yeah, I was, actually. Sometimes I even remember what it was like. Sometimes I put Tim *through* what it was like."

*That* makes the smile fade. "Were you punishing *him*? With me?"

Jason holds up two fingers about an inch apart.

"Jay—"

"I think maybe he could feel it, too. But listen—that doesn't mean the two of you shouldn't have each other. It just means that maybe I shouldn't be a part of it."

Bruce strokes down to Jason's upper arms and grips. "I want you to be."

"I want it, too. More than... a lot of other things. When I think about you touching him for me, for both of us... God, part of me *regrets* that blowjob earlier because it meant I couldn't pay *attention* to you rimming him."

"Jay—" Bruce stiffens in the *wrong* way, and Jay has about *half* the time it takes for him to think that it's a bitch to be bare-ass naked *now* before he notices Tim at the foot of the stairs and his brain can trip over itself in something like peace.

Jason smiles and flexes his arms to get Bruce to let go, walking over and taking Tim *in*: Stiff body language, frown on his face but not in his eyes, backpack *half* full of summer reading books the kid had finished three weeks ago and plans to return the day *before* their due date, *here*. Jason cups Tim's face and lifts it. "Here because you forgot something, or...?"

Tim blinks and the frown is real for a moment. "Um. Or. If that's—"

"It's all right. If nothing else we can always train you more. Good job staying off the radar, by the way. What did you try?"

"Moving like Alfred. Mostly. I. I'm sorry, Jay. I don't ever want to be—I'm sorry."

"You needed to call time. That's—the fact that my *dick* didn't like it doesn't mean it's a problem."

The frown comes *back*—

"Tim, hey—"

"It's easier if I can be... as close to perfect as possible for you, Jay. Everything else is... terrifying, actually. You've never lied to me or even held anything *back*. You trained me and convinced Bruce to train me, as well. I'm *better* now, better than I ever could've been. I just—I'm sorry."

And maybe he just needs to get used to being several different people—each with *many* different issues—at once, because, yeah, there's a *part* of him which is telling him to clap Tim on the shoulder, give him another hug, and send him off to train with Bruce so he can get used to the fact that Bruce had had his tongue up his ass *quickly*.

It's just that he *hates* that part, and the rest of him is mostly in agreement over what he has to do *instead*: Try to be something like... a good man.

"I saw this coming, you know. That you'd come back apologetic—fucking *contrite*."

Tim blinks at him and frowns even harder. "I meant it—"

"I *know* you did, kid. That's kind of the problem," Jason says, sighing and dropping into a crouch in front of him. "First of all—are you okay with the fact that Bruce is listening to every word of this, or do you want to go somewhere private?"

"I—there doesn't have to be a *this*, Jason, we can do—whatever you want," Tim says, and generally looks brave, true, and ready to take on the world head-first. *Dick*-first, if Jason says so.

"There really, really has to be a this. I have things to say that you need to hear. Bruce has already heard pretty much all of them—"

"Then I don't want—you don't have to—"

"Not what I *meant*—"

"Jay—do you always talk to Bruce like that? About me?"

Jason smiles a little. "We talk about you pretty often, yeah. About everything, just about. We keep so many secrets from so many people that it's just more comfortable to know everything about each other in this family—whether or *not* we're actually talking about it."

"In that event... I suppose talking about it is... better. Than the alternative."

"Exactly. Now tell me if you need privacy."

Tim looks at Bruce—Jason looks, too, just to confirm that Bruce is doing that thing where he might as *well* be deep in shadow somewhere. He's not blinking much, and he looks... sympathetic. Hopeful.

Can Tim see that? Jason cups Tim's shoulder. "He just wants you to feel more comfortable—on top of maybe also being happy to be here. And he hopes that you and I can hash this out in a way that could make that happen."

Tim shifts the backpack on his shoulders, which is Tim-speak for 'I want to fidget *really* badly and I bet you can tell so I'll just stop.'

"Tim—"

"Bruce." And he turns to face Bruce— "You... is that true? What Jason said? Not that I think he'd lie to me, but I don't trust him not to try to make me feel better in whatever way he can think of, right now, and that includes stretching the truth."

Jason blinks and bites his tongue a little—

"Jay left out the fact that I was thinking of kissing you, but other than that he was being entirely honest."

Oh... Bruce.

Tim's eyes go wide and a bit shocky-looking, but he recovers quickly and nods. "I—all right." He turns back to Jason. "I don't... need privacy right now. But thank you for asking."

For *once*, Tim doesn't say, and it doesn't even seem to be *under* the words... but it's still there for Jason. "I *haven't* told you the whole truth. Yeah, I meant for you to be a partner to Bruce, and to be the kind of partner I couldn't be, anymore, but I also meant for you to be *different* from the Tim I knew in my universe—different from who you actually are."

"More... violent?"

Jason nods. "Harder, just in general. I didn't want you to be the same kid who made the Bruce in my universe all better again after I kicked. I wanted you to be *better* than he is, in every possible way, but I'm getting—starting to get—the fact that my definition of 'better' isn't always the right one. I haven't changed my mind about what I think you need to do on the *street*, but *this*, between the three of us..."

"What, Jay? I—" Another frown, but this one is lighter. "I really *do* need to know. That."

"I want a threesome. I want more than *one* threesome—badly. I think it would be hot as hell and get us all off like crazy. I want Bruce's hands all over you where I can *see* it, and I want it to happen where I *can't* see it—so one or both of you can tell me all about it. Like I said, for a while it *did* have a lot to do with not wanting to have sex with Bruce, myself, but—I think you caught that I'm mostly over that?"

Tim swallows and *just* the tip of his tongue shows for a second. And he blushes and nods.

"Yeah, exactly. *All* of that and then some, because there aren't too many things I like better than getting that big dick in my throat—and I *know* you can love it, too."

"Ah, probably. But—"

Jason holds up a hand. "But you're not ready. I pushed too hard, too fast. And—hell, it fucking *kills* me to think about it, but maybe you won't ever *be* ready—and that's fine, too. It's not like Dick wouldn't freak the hell out if Bruce up and tells him that yes, *now* he's ready to give it up—"

"Wait. Wait. Dick never had sex with Bruce?" Tim looks at Bruce again, and Jason knows Bruce is shaking his head, and—

Hell. If Tim was thinking... fuck. Fuck. Telling Tim about those fucking dresses and *not* being clear— "I'm pretty sure I would've died on the street if Bruce and Dick had ever gotten together, kid—"

"If I had found you, I would've brought you home," Bruce says, low and solid and—completely sure.

Jason shakes his head. "Bruce, that's not—"

"You made me laugh at one of the darkest, loneliest moments of my life, Jay—"

"You wouldn't have *been* lonely—"

"Perhaps. But it's always dark in Crime Alley."

And what is he supposed to say to that, exactly? Tim is watching both of them, sinking back into himself to do it *unobtrusively*... just like Bruce. Jason raises his hands. "All right, I won't argue. But—Bruce doesn't give up on people he loves. I don't think he *can*. He might be an ass and he might act like he's got one of your staves *up* his ass, but when he pushed and Dick actually *left*—"

"I learned a very important lesson," Bruce says, quietly. "I can't—I tell myself that it was better for Dick to go out on his own, and I think he's doing well... but I'll never escape the fact that I pushed away the second true friend I had ever had. My partner and, in some ways, my son. Tim... I was *prepared* to act in similar ways when I lost the Jason from this world, but that was grief and, perhaps, a sort of madness—"

"Oh, it was definitely madness, you big freak," Jason says, and focuses on Tim, who's focusing on Bruce... exactly the way he should.

"Mm. As you say, Jay. I've learned hope, again, and learned, once more—and hopefully for the last time it will be necessary—that I need whatever family I'm allowed. And I will do everything in my power to keep it. Including keeping my more sexual desires to myself."

Jason nods. He knew it was like that for Bruce, but now Tim knows it, too. And the kid's still totally rewriting that internal Dick narrative, so Jason decides to give him a little time and just give in to the urge to be relieved.

Knowing that Tim would come back and that he would come back just like *this* is nothing against the fact that Tim had come back this soon, at just the right time to catch Jason with just a *little* bit of sanity at his disposal.

Maybe he should suck Bruce off once a day just to keep himself on an even keel. Keep his protein levels up and what-not. Jason smiles to himself and watches Tim think and watch the both of *them*—

"I—all right. I shouldn't have... assumed."

"Not like I didn't give you good reason *to* assume—"

"I find myself wondering what, precisely, you *did* tell Tim about me, Jay," Bruce says, and there's amusement in his voice.

"Heh, well... I had to get Tim *prepared* for you, B. In several different ways," and Jason looks back over his shoulder to offer Bruce his most extreme shit-eating grin—

Bruce hums a laugh and turns to look at Tim with an eyebrow raised.

Jason turns back and Tim is setting his backpack down and looking... a different kind of determined. "What's up, Tim?"

"I think... Bruce, do you ever *call* Dick?"

"He wouldn't welcome it—"

"Or, '*no*, because I'm a dumbass who needs to apologize.' Maybe we should call him right now."

"I'd like to... spend some time talking to him. If he wants to talk to me, that is," Tim says, and looks at both of them.

"Yeah, that sounds like a plan. We'll even give you privacy to do it—after I do a quick walk-on to give him some background."

Tim nods, and when Jason turns again, Bruce is inclining his head.

Good. "Lemme just put some clothes on."

"Ah... um."

Jason squeezes Tim's shoulder. "Yeah, Tim?"

"Does... you say you don't keep many secrets in the family, but does Dick *know* that you and Bruce are... together?"

Jason sighs. "We've never talked about it, but yeah, he knows. It didn't exactly help our relationship much, but Dick's a good guy. He really worked hard to be a friend to me when I needed one. The fact that I couldn't actually accept it from him isn't *on* him."

Tim nods slowly. "You don't speak much about him."

Jason claps Tim's shoulder and stands, giving him the follow gesture. "Here's the quick lesson: he never would've quit being Robin, and that works a nasty kind of magic on him, sometimes. Part of him will always *be* Robin, and not just because he gave Robin his *name*—it was his mother's nickname for him."

"I—all right. What else?"

"He's friendly, loving, warm, crazy. He loves stupid jokes. He can't sit still—ever. He's slept his way through the Titans while *still* managing to be pretty conservative *about* sex, and who should be having it with whom *when*. He hits on everyone he knows, but mostly doesn't mean it. He's in a committed relationship—"

"With Starfire."

"Heh, yeah, you *would* know that, wouldn't you," Jason says, and pulls on his boxer briefs and pants. "What you *don't* know is that Starfire has been pushing Dick to invite someone—not just anyone, but anyone Starfire likes as a friend—for a threesome. As of my death? No dice. Even though Dick has slept with most of these people, himself. Kory was pretty annoyed about that, but *mostly* resigned."

Tim nods. "That's what you mean by conservative?"

Jason waves a hand and grabs his shirt. "Mostly? I'm pretty sure he gets buck wild *with* Kory, and I'm equally sure that he'd be shocked blind if he knew—strike that. He *will* be shocked blind *when* he finds out about us and some of the things we do."

Tim looks thoughtful... and strokes his pec through his shirt.

"Heh. Is that your favorite scar?"

Tim smiles, and it looks so *damned* good—

Jason strokes the corners of it and smiles back—

And Tim's smile gets wider as he blushes. "Ah—yes. At the moment. It's very interesting, aesthetically, and you were... well. Anything else I should know about Dick?"

"Don't be surprised *when* he says something completely inappropriate for how little you know each other. A, you're going to be Robin, and B—that's just how he is. You can tell him to back off a little or you can answer him and let him just flow on to the next topic the way he does. Your call."

"All right. I... did you and Dick ever...?"

"I... call that an 'almost.' He kidnapped me for a ski trip of all things. I made him a deal—I would stop bitching and try to have fun if he let us spike our cocoa at night. Neither of us had any tolerance and I was seriously *curious*. We made out a little until his guilt reflex kicked in. I pointed out that Kory *wouldn't* mind, he kicked me out of his room *very* nicely, and the next morning he tried to give me the sex talk." Jason shakes his head and thinks about how *earnest* Dick can be... "Anyway, neither of us broke a leg, both of us came home with an *excuse* to be so damned windburned all the time, and it never came up again."

"Would you have liked more?"

Jason decides to actually think about the question as he pulls a shirt on and heads over to the console—

Bruce has made himself scarce by the weights, and yeah, everybody has ways to be supremely 'not ready.' Tim's following close and looks *good* and patient. In the end... it's not a hard question.

"Yes and no. Yes, because, as you *may* have noticed, he's incredibly fucking hot, and you can't actually be *around* him for more than five minutes without knowing in your bones that he's great in bed. No, because it would've made things more complicated than they were—I was already screwing Bruce, and I already knew things were *bad* between them, even though I didn't know how bad. At that age, though... I would've done it, anyway."

"But not now."

"Nope."

"What if he and Bruce made up?"

The funny thing is that it doesn't sound like jealousy as opposed to deep-seated curiosity—oh. *Heh*. Jason strokes the side of Tim's face with his fingertips, up and down and up again. "*Someone's* thinking thoughts."

"I—the blush currently on my face has nothing to do with how I feel, as I refuse to—well, you already *knew* that. It's practically the first thing you *said* to me, Jay."

"True, true. It took me a while to figure out how *literal* that hard-on of yours is—but. Seriously? You've never had a conversation with the guy and you're angling for a little action?"

"All right, *now* the blush is appropriate—um. I think... I was just wondering."

"And maybe hoping," Jason says, and sits in Bruce's chair.

"Maybe hoping, yes. And we *did* speak... when I was three. Briefly."

Jason snorts and calls up the Tower. "Uh, huh. If you wanna fuck him and he's game? Go for it," he says, and jabs Tim lightly in the arm—*beneath* the scars. "Just remember who *brought* you to this dance."

"*Jason*, I'd never forget, you know I love—"

"Love? Who's talking about love... in the *Batcave*? There's no love *allowed* in the Batcave, and who—holy *shit*."

Which means that Roy's picture came up at just about the same time theirs did. "Before you ask," Jason says, "yeah, it's me. Just a few years older and from a different universe. I can send you the DNA scans if you want 'em, but I'd rather keep 'em in the family for now. I want a low profile."

"Holy—holy *fucking* shit. *Jay*, Jesus, I—" Roy shakes his head and laughs. "Well, if you're in the Batcave, then I guess you're all right by us. I... it's great to *see* you. When are you coming up here?"

And there's a part of him—still another fucking *part*—that wants to smack Roy down hard for... pretty much everything, but *starting* with the security issue. It's just that this is the *past*, and the Titans do things differently.

Tim's Titans will be a lot different, and he has to make sure Tim *knows* that... though the slight frown on Tim's face says he already *does* know, which—mm.

"Did I say something wrong? And who's the kid?"

Jason opens his mouth—

"Robin," Tim says. "At least... ah. Eventually. It's nice to meet you, Arsenal."

Roy raises an eyebrow. "Okay, we'll play it *that* way. Nice to meet you, too, short-pants-to-be. Did you bring him from your universe, or...?"

"Nah, he's homegrown. I just gave him some training before... bringing him home to roost. He's good people, just a little on the shy side."

"Which I can see by the fact that he's not *quite* trying to hide behind the chair. Yeah, okay. When did you *get* here? How? Do you—will you be going back?"

"A few months ago. Anomalies that were popping up all over the place in my universe but not so much here. And... that all depends on where the next anomaly will open up. I'm stuck here for now, and that's not so bad."

"Well, *I* happen to think our universe is the best. Seriously, guy—get *up* here. Because Bats won't like it if we have to come get you ourselves. Or—hell. *Were* things the same in your universe? As far as you... know?"

And Jason would lay money that *that* particular hand gesture was pure Ollie. He checks—

Yeah, Tim's raising an eyebrow.

Heh. "Yeah, things seemed to have gone down pretty much the same. But it was all four long years ago, and I was doing... other things, in other places, with other people."

Roy holds *up* his hands. "No pressure, tough guy. Just... heh. *Curious*. So, you're obviously not calling just to chat. Shall I retrieve Lord Nightwing, or do you need the team?"

"Lord Nightwing, hunh? He getting all Bat on your asses?"

Roy holds up his thumb and forefinger. "Kory's off-planet. You know how it goes when he starts feeling guilty *and* bored."

He really, really does, and—fuck, if this isn't warming something up in him. Jason smiles and shakes his head. "Get 'im for us, yeah. He needs to know the score."

"Well, then, you just hold the line, sir. He'll be with you just as soon as I finish blowing his mind. I think I'll do that in *person*," Roy says, and grins. "Fuck, Jay. Stay a while, if you can, hunh?"

Jason smiles a little wider. "If I can, yeah."

"Good deal. And short pants the third? The invite's good for you, too—and not just because Dick'll teach you things you'll *need* out there," and Roy slaps the console in front of him twice before heading off.

"How you doing, kid?"

"A bit on the contemplative side, actually. I can't help wondering how it is that people can forget the Jason from *this* world so easily."

Well, there's *that*—but. "Don't think about it as forgetting the Jason who lived and died here. Think of it as people doing everything they can to pretend he never died, at all. When I think about what I would've been like if, say, Bruce died—and then showed up again a few years older but still *enough* like my Bruce that he had all the right memories, said all the right things in all the right ways..." Jason spreads his hands. "Put it this way—I'm not surprised that people who knew the Jason from this world react to me this way, and I'm also not surprised that *you're* a little more cautious about things."

"That's... thank you, that does make it better."

"You cared about him."

Tim looks down. "I... I know it's as silly as my feelings for Dick—sillier, even—but yes. Yes, I did. Very much."

Jason reaches out and takes Tim's hand, squeezing it a little. "Somewhere, that counts pretty big."

Tim looks up again and smiles at him. "You make a difference everywhere you are."

"Yeah, soundin' like Bruce again. You really need to quit that, kid. C'mon, curse for me."

"Bite me, motherfucker," Tim says, in the sweetest, *poshest* voice he can manage—

"Hey, hey, hey, none of that—oh my God, you're tiny. And you're Jason Todd. And you—why doesn't anyone ever *tell* me about new Robins? And you're *Jason Todd*—"

"Hi, Dick, nice to see you. We're telling you *now*," Jason says, and gives Tim's hand one more squeeze before turning to face the monitor. Dick looks pretty poleaxed, which is only to be expected, but he's also got something like his game face on, which is impressive even considering what he's wearing.

"I need the scans. I need to *see* the scans. Look, I'm sorry, guy—"

"Like I told Roy, I *can* send 'em, but it might be better if you came down and checked them out for yourself—"

"Where's *Bruce*?"

Jason points toward the weights and watches Dick frown hard enough that it *almost* looks natural on his face—

"How are you *older*?"

Jason shrugs. "Time moved differently in my universe. It's four years—"

"Roy said," Dick says, and waves a hand. "I—I'm coming down there."

"Probably for the best," Jason says, and swivels the chair a little. "Now say hello to the Robin in training like you have a little *class*, 'guy.'"

Dick frowns harder—

Dick *blinks*—

And the smile he turns on Tim could melt lead, blind eagles, and give dead guys erections—as a former dead guy, he's qualified to *make* judgments like that. Tim... has actually taken a step *back*—

"No, hey, don't do that. You're not that tiny, I swear. *I* was that tiny when I started out, and—there'll be growth?"

"Ah... one hopes. Um. Hello, Nightwing. I'm—"

"No, don't give me a name yet, little... person. I'll *be* there in an hour—"

"Two, two and a half this time of day," Jason says—

"Damn, you're right. *Right* during patrol, but—you'll be there, won't you, Robin-to-be?"

"I... um. I actually have to go home. I live with my parents—"

"You have *parents*? Who are *alive*? What are you—how did Bruce *find* you?"

Tim blushes hard, like maybe having parents is something to be *ashamed* of—

"*I* found him, Nightwing... but he would've found *you* sooner or later, which is a story you'll hear when you get here."

"I—" Dick shakes his head hard. "All right, I'm leaving now. *Somebody* stay put. Nightwing out."

"Um. Bye?"

Dick sends Tim another one of those smiles—at a *slightly* lower wattage. "We'll talk *tomorrow*, kid. Or maybe I'll just crawl in your window tonight. We'll see."

Tim chokes—*mostly* after Dick signs out.

Jason grins. "Had that fantasy once or twice, didja?"

"Ah—once or twice. Or several dozen times. One of those."

Jason snickers and gives Tim a shove. "Did I ever—"

"Yes. Definitely yes."

"What about Dick *and* me?"

Tim smiles at him wryly. "There may have been inappropriate use of the gauntlets. And the batcuffs."

Batcuffs. Jesus, he *remembers* those things— "See, this? Is where I stop worrying about *making* you too kinky."

Tim hums. "You really shouldn't sell yourself short in that respect, Jay."

"Oh, there's *nothing* short over here, kid," and Jason hooks one leg around—

Jason *tries* to hook one leg around Tim's, but Tim leaps over it easily.

"It's like *that*, hunh?"

"Ah... maybe? Mostly it's time for me to go back home," Tim says, and gives him a *rueful* smile. "I'd much rather... stay. No matter what."

Jason raises his eyebrows. "You know you don't have to—"

"I know. And that helps... rather a lot." He bites his lip—stops. And then leans in to kiss Jason, quick and light.

It's sweeter than anything he knows what to do with, which means he just has to take it and *let* it be that—good. "You should do that more often."

"I—yes?"

"*Maybe* with a little more tongue," and Jason kicks idly for Tim's shins just to watch him dodge and move. "Maybe."

"I'll keep that in mind. Should I still have Alfred—"

"No, I'll take you home. Give Bruce some more time to brood on all his failings while pumping iron—he needs that, every once in a while."

Tim nods just like he's filing that information away... the way he should be.

Good boy.


	22. Chapter 22

Which is pretty much how he wound up *back* here, *alone* in the Cave, because Bruce is failing to deal spectacularly—by way of pointing out that *one* of them needs to be patrolling—and...

He hasn't done anything to piss this Dick off, other than the same old song about taking his name, his place, and a healthy chunk of his identity. They're not enemies, and they're not even allies always on the *edge* of being enemies. He's—

He can *be* 'little wing,' for all that it would be like stepping into a pair of pixie boots as small as the ones in that fucking Case—

All right, maybe not that, but—still.

There's a need in him with Dick's name on it, and since he's admitting to all *kinds* of weak-ass shit today, he might as well admit that, too. Right?

Jason spends the last twenty minutes before Dick could reasonably arrive going over and over gang activity reports, checking on the people he'd paid special attention to in his own world and finding only two of the eight rate a red flag in Bruce's system. And one of them is only *provisionally* on the watch list, because Bruce hasn't confirmed the assaults and murders listed for even his own purposes. None of the things he *knows* the guy has done are—

None of the things he knows the guy *will* do, eventually, because... yeah.

He can't add anything to Bruce's records other than provisional red flags of his own, which is the next thing to useless. If even Dent can't perform on time, then there's no telling *how* many things will go differently here—which is a little on the queasy-making side.

Had something he'd done by *accident* altered the timeline? Was someone he'd beaten bloody and left for the cops supposed to have helped Dent or something? Had Tim done it?

And something in him really, really, *really* doesn't want him to walk down that road, because...

Because all the changes here were supposed to be ones he'd *intended*, and if *that* wasn't a stupid fucking thing to hang a belief system on—yeah.

Fucking butterfly wings. Jason pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath—movement. *Stealthy* movement, and Jason's up and slashing—

Missing—

And the kick Dick sends at his head is something he can bend himself back to avoid—

Up to catch it on the downswing—

Miss and Dick's coming for him hard. Jason blocks and moves, blocks some more and *doesn't* strike, and—fucking hell. "This isn't exactly the best *start*, Big Bird."

Dick quick-steps back but stays in his ready position. "You tried to *gut* me, little—hell."

Jason stands down, sheathing his knife and raising his hands. "You snuck *up* on me. When have I *ever* responded well to that?"

Dick's expression kind of twists, quirks— "Hell," he says again, and stands down. "Where are the scans?"

"I told Bruce to put 'em somewhere only you would know where to look."

Dick scowls and shakes his head. "Because of course he couldn't just *stay* here for five freaking *minutes*—God. The *last* time I was here—"

"He told me," Jason says, without thinking, and the look on Dick's face says that maybe he *should've* been thinking, because—

"He *talked* to you about the two of us? When he can't even make a damned *phone* call?"

Jason winces and makes a little pushing motion with his hands. "When I was a kid I made a serious effort not to even *try* to get between the two of you, and I still think that's a good plan of action for me."

Dick glares at him for another moment—takes a breath and pushes a hand through his hair. "Go work the weights while I try to figure out how that Byzantine labyrinth of a mind is working *this* time. Do it *loudly*."

Jason snorts and follows orders. The quicker this is done...

Yeah. He puts lots of extra clanking into it, deciding to give himself a little room to pretend to be thirteen and determined to be able to bench Bruce before he was *fourteen*. Bruce had let him work the weights without too much discipline, and...

At first he hadn't noticed the lapse. Then he'd spent some time thinking that it was just because he didn't think Jason *could* do better. Then, toward the end—after he'd started controlling *himself* in one of the *less* destructive fuck-offs he'd aimed at Bruce—he'd realized that it was all about Bruce realizing how much he *liked* working the weights, liked having something his clumsy, inflexible body was naturally *good* at.

Every kid needs a little fun, right?

They *really* could've talked a lot more than they had, back then, but... who would he be if that had gone down? Would he have just ignored the fact that he'd had a mother out there? Would he have followed Bruce's lead a little longer?

Movement—but it's Dick, and Jason relaxes himself and sits up, letting his hands hang between his knees. The shock is hitting Dick full force, now.

After a long moment of staring, Dick drops into a crouch in front of him and takes one of Jason's hands in both of his own, turning it back and forth before running two fingers down the center of Jason's palm.

And that—pretty much always makes him shiver—

Dick shivers, too. And nods. "I remember. That night—"

"The ski lodge. And a *giant* cocktease."

Dick smiles broadly, but it's almost absent, or... it doesn't quite go all the way down *into* him, somehow.

"Dick...?"

"I never thought. I always wanted to see what kind of man you'd grow into. I mean, that was *important* to me, for a lot of reasons—"

"Starting with the fact that the *boy* always made you want to smack him."

"Him. Not... you." The smile falls off Dick's face, getting replaced with something pretty awful. "It's obscene that he's still in the ground and you're... no, it was always obscene. Did you just not have a run-in with the Joker then—"

"He killed me. I remember dying, all the pain and anger and *disappointment*. And then something woke me up, healed all the places I was broken..." Jason smiles ruefully. "I woke up *just* before my heart started beating again, and it was the worst pain I've ever felt. And then I dug myself out—"

"Of the *ground*? Could he be—was he—"

Jason shakes his head. "I checked. The anomalies have been popping off to all kinds of universes. As far as I know, I was the only Jason Todd who got a second chance. This world won't have the tech to register or really study the anomalies for another couple of years—unless I give it to someone."

Dick raises an eyebrow. "You're thinking of keeping it to yourself?"

Is he? Why *hasn't* he given the sensor to Bruce to study? Is he afraid Bruce will recalibrate it or something just to keep him?

Well, *now* he is, but—

Jason shakes his head. "I don't know, really. Something to keep to myself, maybe."

"Something from home."

"Everybody needs a keepsake or two?" Jason laughs. "Seriously, Big Bird, I don't know."

"God, you're only... two years younger than me?"

"Two, yeah."

Dick nods slowly. "So what about Robin the third? Why aren't *you* taking Bruce's back?"

I saw a chance, Dick. A *real* chance to *do* something real— "I can't be Robin anymore, Dick. It's just not in me. And—"

"Not even a little?"

And of course Dick would have to ask that. "Do I miss working with Bruce? Hell, yes—"

"Wait, wait, that sounded like—did you not *go* to Bruce when you... got out?"

"I *think* I was going to? I was pretty wild. Terrified, confused, off my game. I got hit by a car and things are seriously hazy after that. Talia picked me up—"

"*Talia*?"

("Is anyone ever truly home, little one? I've learned to distrust the very concept.")

"Talia. And the League of Assassins. For a little over three years," Jason says, and thinks about all the ways this conversation could've happened with the Dick in his own world—

If he hadn't put so much time and effort into shitting where he ate. And Dick looks poleaxed again.

"Dick—"

"But—okay, you needed help, and someone had to be there to give it to you, but—why did you *stay*?"

And the parts of him which have been waking up all over the place want an answer to that, too. Jason shakes his head again. "I was a mess, Dick. In... in a lot of ways, I still am. I don't really let myself think about it much—" Or fucking *ever*—"But sometimes I'm not sure I came back *right*. Then again—I wasn't exactly in the best fucking headspace in the weeks and months *before* I died."

"We didn't talk for just—it *was* months. Jesus, Jay. I'm so *sorry*—"

"Shit, no, don't do that, Dick. I can't—I can't really take that, okay?"

Dick looks like he wants to protest that *hard*, but he nods and settles for gripping Jason's hand between his own again. "So... what's the score? Should we be working to get you back home? Call in some of the big physics and magic guns?"

"As near as I can tell, the only way back is through another anomaly. And—I came here by choice, Dick."

"You—but. I don't think I understand."

"Everybody wants to start over sometimes, too, right?" Jason laughs a little, but it sounds fucking awful. He tilts his head back to choke it off and then just lets himself blink at the stalactites, a little. When he's got something like himself—

And isn't that the problem? Hasn't he just *been* "something like" himself for the last four fucking *years*?

"I fucked up over there, Dick. All over the place. Some of the things I did when I finally went back to Gotham I'd do again, but not most of them. I blamed everybody else for what had happened to me and I found all kinds of ways to take it out on them. *Especially* Bruce and Tim—that's his name, by the way—"

"'Timothy Drake, aged thirteen. Significant training in the martial arts from Jason Todd and myself, moderate acrobatic abilities, potentially powerful investigative mind. Chosen weapons: staff, throwing stars, *hunting knife*—' And what's the deal with *that*? Since when are knives part of the Mission?"

"Since I made them be," Jason says, and he knows his voice is too hard by the hard look he gets from Dick in return.

"All right, we'll deal with that *later*, Mr. Oh, I Think I'll Just Eviscerate The Guy Who's Just Trying To Say *Hello*—"

"By coming up on me like a fucking *assassin*—"

"In the Cave where *everyone* walks like a ghost, and you *know* if you ever try that crap with Alfred he will *hurt* you—"

"*Alfred* always clears his damned *throat*—"

"*Anyway*," Dick says, smiling a little. "You took it out on Bruce and Tim—who was Robin in your universe and... I guess seventeen? Did he *grow*?"

"Sixteen when I started fucking with him, and not enough."

Dick nods. "Okay, so you... what did you *do*?"

"Beatings, deathtraps—Dick, you should know. I've killed people. Several."

Dick rears back and looks sick— "And is that filed under things you'd do again or *not*?"

*Yes*. Yes, it is. It is, because some people need to die, because I can *do* it even when other people *can't*, and yeah, it's fucked up, but sometimes— "Sometimes you can make the world less fucked up if you make it a little more fucked up first," Jason says, and, in the end, he's really not surprised when Dick snorts—

"I'm not buying it, little wing. I'm not—all right, you've killed people, but that's not who you are *inside*. None of the crap you've pulled—and I *know* you, and that you can do some serious damage when your head's not on right—sits right with you, or you wouldn't have jumped fucking *universes*. God, your Bruce has to be driving himself *crazy* over you—"

"*Dick*—"

"No. You *listen* to me, Jay," Dick says, squeezing Jason's hand hard enough to grind the bones together. "Whatever you've done, whoever you've done it *to*, the biggest and *best* part of you knew that you had to get *right*. You didn't think you could do it where you were, so you came here—"

"I *came* here to make Tim Drake into the kind of Robin who can get things *done* in this world—"

"And what? You were just going to get him good and fucked in the head and send him to Bruce? Look at where you *are*, Jay. Look at what you're doing—what you're still willing to do. What you *want* to do."

"Fuckin' A, Dick, I *want* to punch you in the *face*—"

"But you *don't* want to slit my throat—or whatever the hell you did to..." Dick shakes his head. "No, Jay, I know you don't want it, but—"

He sees the move coming enough to dodge, but it's Dick, who still knows at least *some* of the ways he moves, so they wind up rolling on the stone, pushing and shoving for leverage neither of them is *getting*—

"Okay, I'll say one thing, *someone* trained you pretty damned well—"

"Jesus fucking *Christ*, Dick, what do you *want*?"

"*This*," Dick says, faking an elbow to Jason's jaw which leaves Jason with just *enough* room to roll on his side—

And get hugged. Seriously, thoroughly, yes, that's his *whole* body, and everyone should just be glad that Dick *does* wear a jock under the Cleavagewing suit, because *damn*—hugged.

"Now just *take* this hug, and—I don't have anything that comes after that," Dick says, trying and failing to blow the hair out of his face.

"You wanted a hug."

"I wanted to give *you* a hug. I *needed* to give you a hug."

"You could've fucking *asked*, you asshole!"

"You don't hug! And you *rebuffed* my earlier efforts at comfort."

"I totally hug! Sometimes. When I *feel* like it. God, did you grow extra fucking arms or something?"

"You're still not taking the hug."

"I'm—" Jason growls and shifts as much as he *can*—which happily is enough to take his shoulder out of the dislocation danger zone. "Fine. I'm taking the hug. Are you *happy*?"

"*Ecstatic*. Except that whatever terrifying damned thing you have in your inside left pocket is poking the *hell* out of me."

"I was *planning* to go out on patrol after I gave you the heads up, you lunatic—"

"Jay."

"*What*?"

"Nothing was the same without you. I didn't realize how much even just knowing you were *there* made a difference. I didn't appreciate you enough—"

"Oh, Jesus, Dick—"

"So help me, I will hug you *harder* if you don't let me finish."

And Jason realizes that he's fucking *glowering*, like maybe he'd turned into Bruce at some point—Christ, no. Just—Jason snorts a little and shakes his head. "Okay. *Have* your moment."

"*Thank* you. Where was I?"

"How awesome I am and how much you *really* wish you'd let me suck you off that night—"

Dick headbutts him. Lightly. "As I was *saying*—I didn't appreciate you enough. I was too wound up in my own shit, too pissed and hurt over Bruce—you know all that already, because you were putting *up* with it—"

"Just like you were putting up with *my* punk ass—"

"And we never—God, I know it's cheesy, Jay, but we never *connected* the way we could have, the way I *knew* we could have, because of all those little *moments* when it worked between us. And yeah, I'm *including* that night, because even though I still think I was right not to put out, there could've been something else. More talking, *sleeping* together... hell, I don't know. I'm not doing this right."

"You don't *have* to—"

"I *do*, because I haven't been here an *hour* and I already know that things got too messed up in your universe—whether or *not* it was your own damned fault for being an ultraviolent little *psycho*—anyway. There were more missed chances, and that makes me hurt inside, Jay. Little wing. *Brother*."

And there's that *thing* inside him, that seizing, clenching—fucking *spasming* thing, and it wants things from him he can't give, that he doesn't know *how* to fucking give— "Dick..."

"Yeah, I—I'll let you go in a minute. I..." Dick laughs a little. "I was the soppy one, you were the vicious one, and... what's Timmy?"

"Tim. Or... hunh. I've never *asked* him if he liked being called Timmy, but somehow I've gotta go with a big no on that one."

"Ooh. He can be the *serious* one, then. I can see it now," Dick says, and detaches, rolling onto his back.

Jason does the same, reaching back to put an arm under his head. "Yeah? What do you see?"

"We can get him a pair of little granny glasses—"

"Which every asshole out there would try to break all over his *face*—"

"The glasses," Dick says, "will of course be made from titanium. And... uh... some space-age polymer for the lenses. They can have *lasers* in them, which will make them good and practical—"

"Seriously, Dick, do Kory's pheromones have psychotropic qualities or something?"

"Wouldn't *you* like to know—"

"*Yes*, Dick. Yes, I would, because I'm a red-blooded vigilante male, and she walks around wearing two strips of metal and *boots*."

"God, yes, she really, really does. Spuh. Where was I?"

"Making Tim into a *target*."

"Yes! Yes, I was. Okay, so there's the glasses," Dick says, sketching them in the air with his fingers. "And—he likes throwing stars. He's good with them?"

"Good enough that he can only practice with them with *Bruce*, now," Jason says, and thinks about the thin little *slice* along the outside of his right thigh. Mm. "Vicious, too."

"You *would* like that. Okay, he gets *special* throwing stars. Ones shaped like... oh, little *books*."

Jason snorts. "Not enough *points*—"

"If he's *that* good, he can work *around* that," and Dick's smile—his *grin*—is broad and a little manic. "The serious ones *like* books."

"He's going to be *Robin*, not the fucking *Librarian*, Dick—"

"Ohh. Mm. Did you ever *see* Babs in her little reading glasses?"

Babs. *Babs*, and what if he'd gotten here sooner? What if he'd *found* this anomaly sooner? The world needs Oracle, and right now she's off with the Suicide Squad *becoming* the Oracle they all need, but—

Dick knocks the back of his hand against Jason's chest. "Hey, where'd you go?"

"I—Babs. And not the reading glasses—which, hell yes, were extremely hot."

Dick sighs. "I... I take it that went down the same way in your universe, too?"

Jason nods. "It did. She comes back with a *vengeance*—"

"No. No, Jay, I don't—I don't want to hear what happens. I mean, I *do*—but it might not happen *here*, you know? God knows what's *already* different in this universe thanks to you popping in."

Jason winces. "Yeah... that."

Dick turns back on his side and rests his hand on Jason's chest. "Things are already different?"

"Yeah, they are."

Dick frowns. "I... since whatever it was already happened—or didn't happen, I guess. Tell me?"

Jason blows out a breath. "Well, there's a lot I *don't* know about what was supposed to happen in this time period since I was across the world, but—Two-Face was supposed to get out and *nearly* off you and Bruce together."

The frown gets a little harder. "Together? Meaning me and Bruce were *working* together?"

"Yeah. I..." Jason moves his free hand to cover the one Dick has on his chest, drumming his fingers a little. "Which actually brings us back to Tim."

"Okay...?"

"Let me give you a little backstory on our trainee: You met him before. The day your parents died."

Dick rears back—a little. "He... went to the circus? Wouldn't he have been—"

"Three, yeah. He remembers it like it was yesterday. You? Made a *serious* impression. Add that to the fact that he was *watching*... well, he's been having nightmares—and the occasional *good* dream—about you since then."

"Jesus. That's—uh. That's... kind of a thing, right there. But what does that—"

"He's obsessive and *focused*—and he focused on you. Knew when Bruce took you in, read all the little articles and interviews. At the same *time*, the fact that he saw Batman arrive on the scene gave him a *second* obsession. Are you following me?"

"Yes, Jay, I—wait a minute. Wait a *minute*—are you saying...? No, you're not—"

Jason shakes his head. "I really, really am. The quadruple somersault gave you away, Big Bird—"

"I—*damn*. Bruce always *hated* it when people got footage of us and it wound up on the news. Jesus, I was *proud*—"

"And *Tim*—probably had his very first orgasm. Heh. He got his parents to give him a camera and started sneaking out at night. Back at my place? I have four *years* worth of pictures of you, Bruce, *and* me. All over the city—and New York, too. Rooftops, alleys... it's actually pretty amazing that he didn't get himself *killed*. Or caught, for that matter."

"Holy..." Dick pushes off and lies back down. "I think my spine is trying to fuse itself together, here, little wing."

"Heh. Yeah. It took me some serious time to deal with it, myself, but... he's a *good* kid, Dick. He never would've tried to out anyone, or do anything more than *keep* taking his little pictures and having his little fantasies of justice."

"I'm still stuck over here. He knew. He *knew*. For *years*—"

"Yeah, he really did. And when I died and Bruce started losing it... well, I don't know *everything* about how this went down—just what my own Bruce told me one day in an attempt to get me to stop fucking with Tim—but... he went to you. Tracked you down, told you his story, and tried to get you to come watch Bruce's back."

"Jesus. I would've taken that... badly. Very, very badly. But Bruce—he was really—no, strike that," Dick says, and drags a hand down over his face. "He was a wreck, and I knew it, and I didn't think—I *don't* think—that there was anything I could do about it."

Jason waves a hand. "Bruce couldn't have fucked things worse between you if he'd been trying. Whatever really happened, you and Bruce wound up in a bad way with Two-Face... and Tim and Alfred stepped in to save the day. After *that*—you got Bruce to take Tim on."

"Okay, *that* much makes sense. A kid like that kind of *needs* structure so he doesn't grow up to be a damned supervillain."

Jason tries to picture Tim going evil, but he gets stuck on memories of the Tim from his universe, fighting as hard as he knew how *while* trying to convince Jason to come in out of the cold... he shakes his head again. "No, I don't think I'd ever worry about that with Tim."

Dick turns to face him and raises an eyebrow. "We're talking about someone ready, willing, and *able* to stalk someone for *his entire life*."

"Heh. I will totally own that he's obsessive, but... he's one of *us*, Dick. His brand of crazy blends in just fine."

"And all of this means that *you* like him a lot—it probably helps that he has as dirty a mouth as you do—"

"I did my *level* best to teach him how to curse. Left to his own devices, he's pretty prim and proper."

"Mm. I'm back to wanting the glasses and the little... booken. Shurikook. Bookiken?"

"Bukkake?"

Dick knocks the back of his hand against Jason's chest again, and... it feels good to let him.

"Anyway, Dick—"

"No, wait, I need more."

Jason raises his own eyebrows. "Yeah? Still freaking out a little?"

"I wouldn't say—no, I would say. Yes, I'm freaking out. You're sure he didn't tell anyone? I mean, doesn't he have friends?"

That... Jason bends his leg up to scratch at one of last night's bruises and tries to think about that, about how to *put* it...

"*That* doesn't look good—"

"No, really, he hasn't told a soul. It's just that the friends he does have... well, there's exactly *one* of them—a kid named Ives—who gets to know anything about his life. And what *he* gets to know... are a whole lot of lies. I told him to keep his mouth shut *once* and he *really* took it to heart. On the surface, he's got this nice, normal life with all the fucking trimmings—his parents are *the* Drakes, by the way—"

"*Hell*. Really? I *know* them—"

"From all the parties, yeah. But they're always traveling and leaving the kid alone with the maid, and his "best friend" thinks he has a girlfriend tucked away somewhere that those parents can't know about. He gives *everything* to—" Me. "Us."

Dick frowns. "That's not really healthy. At *all*, Jay. Haven't you—"

"Done something about it? Hell, Dick, in my world... things started going really bad really *fast* right about now. I wanted Tim to be ready as soon as possible, because we're—you're all going to *need* him—"

"Stop right there. *Are* you thinking of staying? Fuck, Jay, we need *you*. I know you probably want to... okay, no, I *don't* know—hell," Dick says, sitting up, turning, and pulling himself into an easy lotus.

Jason follows suit and holds up his hands. "I planned to get out of here as soon as an anomaly popped off that would take me somewhere else. Maybe home, maybe not."

"And that was the *past* tense I heard there, right?"

And maybe this is the real reason why he hadn't wanted Bruce and Dick to know that he was here. This kind of—family. Jason sighs and looks at his own hands for a moment before setting them down on his thighs. "Dick, I... fuck if I know, all right?"

Dick reaches and takes Jason's hands in his own. "I can't stop you from going back home, Jay. I know that. *And* I know that I can't really stop you from doing *anything* you want to do, but bear with me a minute, here, all right?"

Jason nods and squeezes Dick's hands because he can—

It makes Dick smile and squeeze him back. "Little wing. It sounds like you've done a whole hell of a lot of soul-searching in between training up a new Robin and maybe—probably—giving Bruce a large portion of his soul back. You could—and probably *should*—use that to go back home and make amends wherever and however you *can*. But I'm not going to lie to you. The way I see it? *One* Jason—wherever the hell he comes from—is better than no Jason, at all. And I'm willing to bet that Bruce *and* Tim feel the same. Just—think about that when an anomaly *does* pop off close enough so you can feel the breeze, okay?"

Yeah, so maybe he wants another damned hug. Jason swallows and nods, squeezing Dick's hands one more time before letting go.

"God, Jay, you look... are you honestly *surprised* I would say that? I *love* you, you idiot."

Jason laughs quietly. "Yeah, sometimes I just need reminders that *everyone* isn't out for something from me—"

"Jay—"

"And that I *enjoy* it when the things people are after are what I want to give, anyway," Jason says, and gets up. "C'mon, you're already dressed, Big Bird. Let's get *out* there."

"Patrol? In *Gotham*? I really should—"

"Take my hand, get up—and make a little noise with me. Call it old time's sake."

"You sentimental *fool*. I'm in," Dick says, taking Jason's hand and holding on to it once he's up. "My God, are you *ever* not supposed to be taller than I am."

Jason snorts. "Fucking *deal* with it, bitch."

Dick makes a kissy face at him—and dances back out of range. "Oh, yeah, I *was* going to stick around long enough to invade Tim's house—Jesus, it's weird that he has living parents."

"Yeah, well, they don't *act* like parents, so we're good there. Sometimes Bruce takes the kid out for night-training—"

"*Seriously*?"

"When it was just me and him? *I* would pick him up around eleven and start showing him the city *my* way."

"Ah, yes, *your* way. I think if you added up all the blood I got on my Robin suit over the *years* it wouldn't add up to what you did in a month."

"Heh. Alfred used to give me these *looks* for my gauntlets—"

"Yeah, because red, gold, green, and *dried blood* makes such a nice *statement*."

"Do I get to tell you about the uniforms you pick out when all the Kory-fumes wear off enough for you to *think*?"

"No, you do *not*," Dick says, primly, pulling his gloves—you *can't* really call them gauntlets—back on and heading over to the uniforms for some reason.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to see for myself how fashion-forward *you* are, Jay—and what do you call yourself out there since you're not Robin? Deathbird? Blackhawk—no, that's taken—"

"Dick, I'm *wearing* my patrol clothes," Jason says, spreading his arms and doing a little turn. "And I just go by 'J.' Since 'Red Hood' makes even me a little sick these days—"

"Red—eugh. *Seriously*? But—"

"C'mon, you *felt* the armor."

"I thought that was just for *me*—okay, no, I don't know what I thought. I don't know what I *think*. I mean—what if someone gets a shot of you?"

Jason pulls the red domino out of his pocket and pastes it down. "Happy?"

Dick frowns and shakes his head. "Where's the *showmanship*?"

"Man, your priorities are kinda fucked. You know that, right?"

Dick flips him off—and flips his lenses down. "Hey, wait, what's that red back there?"

"Ah—take a look. Tell me what you think," Jason says, and moves a little closer.

"Oh... wow. Now *that's* entertainment," Dick says, and turns the dummy around. "But where's the green?"

Jason puts his hands in his pockets and grins. "Doesn't suit him."

Dick strokes the R-shuriken and whistles softly. "Guess I wouldn't want anyone that tiny running around in the little—"

"Panties—"

"*Shorts*. Trunks, even. God, how the hell did Bruce *okay* that? *Twice*? Because let me tell you, little wing—you looked like seriously *scary* pornography in them when you started filling out."

Jason snickers. "Yeah, because *you* looked perfectly normal."

"You had—*have*—those *thighs*—"

"Big and bold and made for heads to nestle *between*."

Dick makes a choked sound and shakes his head. "So you took him out in this a few times?"

"Had to train him in it, get him used to it... I also didn't like hearing all the 'Robin is dead' rumors on the street."

"Some things *can't* die," Dick says, and turns back to face him. "Though if anyone had *asked* me if there should be another Robin after you... I'm not sure *what* I would've said."

Jason shrugs. "Bruce needs it."

"It's not that I can't *see* that. I only had to *look* at him with you to see... well. To see a lot. Jay... are you and Bruce...?"

Jason raises his eyebrows and runs his tongue over his teeth. "Uh... Dick—"

"Yeah, I'm asking. Even though I never asked before. We both knew that *I* knew, though, and—I need to know now, too."

"Then yeah, we are. I told myself I *wouldn't* do it—"

Dick raises a hand. "You love him too much. I hear that. Hunh. What does *Tim* think about all of this?"

Oh, well, *there's* a point. And turning away isn't going to *help* anything, so... yeah. "Tim and I are fucking, Dick."

Dick looks at him. Then he looks at the Robin suit—at the *size* of the Robin suit, most likely—and then Dick shakes his head like a dog.

"Dick—"

"*How* old is he?"

Jason pulls his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms over his chest. "Old enough to devote his life to the *Mission*, Big Bird. Or is this where I call you on Big *Blue*?" 

Dick makes a strangled sound and brings the heel of his hand to his forehead, banging them together a few times. "Yeah, okay, okay. Maybe it's been a little too long since I *was* that age—which is *another* reason to maybe—gah. You know... I never *did* ask Clark what was going through his head back then. Maybe I should?"

Jason smirks. "Depends on if you actually wanna *know*."

Dick laughs. "Okay, yeah, you're right, you're right. Jesus. Did you ever ask *Bruce*?"

"Didn't really have to. He can be... uh. Verbal? Sometimes?"

Dick blinks. "Like... talking? About his feelings? And all you have to do is get him off first?"

"Sometimes you just have to get him... let's call it 'excited' and leave it at that."

And the expression on Dick's face is more *wondering* than anything else, which...

It could be a *lot* worse. "C'mon—"

"Yeah, I hear you. I... thank you, Jay. For being willing to talk about this with me."

Once upon a time—no, say it. "There was a time when I thought *you* could make it make sense for *me*, Dick."

"Yeah, and then the drugs wore *off*. Okay, I'm set."

And—

Patrol is patrol, except when it's exciting. And except when it's with a *partner*. He's using one of Bruce's bikes, Dick's using his own—which he'd parked the exact same place Jason had the first time, and that *feels* like an 'of course'—and right now they're tearing down Broadway at a comfortable seventy after breaking up a party at a 'social club' that Dick hadn't visited since *he* was Robin.

They hadn't been doing anything more wrong than a little illegal gambling, but Dick had definitely been right when he'd pointed out that *everyone* there deserved at least an *occasional* beating.

And Dick—

He's having fun. Very clearly getting to know Gotham all over again and very clearly loving it like oxygen and great sex—

"You feel it, little wing?" Dick's voice is a *little* tinny in his ear, but the radios are—of course—the best.

"The need for speed? Or just the *night*?"

Dick laughs and veers in front of him, making Jason weave—

And then they're giving the citizens a thrill, making the bikes burn and fucking *stitch* through traffic and generally making a nuisance out of themselves. Jason laughs right back and pops a wheelie—

Dick gives him one right back—and then stands *up* on the bike, shaking his ass and laughing in Jason's ear.

"Crazy fucker."

"I think you'll find," Dick says, grunting as he gets back into *something* like a safe riding posture, "that *I* only fuck *sanely*."

"No, *you* only fuck aliens. What's that kink called, anyway?"

"Good *taste*—ooh, I think I see a possible. Two o'clock."

Two o'clock is a big, nasty-looking fight with eight, maybe nine individuals—gun. "I'm riding through."

"I'll cut 'em off north."

"Deal," Jason says and knocks a few assholes flying—two still holding beer bottles.

They actually wind up stopping at about the same time, but that's the last of Dick he's aware of for a good, solid minute of fighting off angry drunks until he can get off the bike and *really* start causing pain.

There *are* nine of them, and, as usual, they've forgotten whatever made them decide to fight each other and are doing their level best to make Jason's life difficult—and he's not seeing the gun anywhere. Hm. Jason breaks a jaw with his elbow— "Yo, N, where's the heater?"

"*Just* a sec—there. It's flying into the gutter as we speak. Don't see any others."

"Yeah, these guys aren't serious—"

"Hey, *fuck* you, motherfucker!"

"I wasn't *talking* to *you*, asshole," Jason says, dropping a guy who'll have some serious dental costs. "But since you *want* my attention—" Two quick hits to the face, breaking his nose and maybe one of his cheekbones, followed by his favorite nut-cruncher of a kick—

He catches the hand with the bottle that was aimed at his head and throws the guy at two of the others—

Just in time to see Dick taking out the last two with a split-kick.

"Man, I can't wait 'til you teach Robin that," and Jason wades in to give everybody down a good, solid kick to the—ribs. He's being good.

Dick pulls out the zip-strips. "He's that flexible?"

"Oh, yeah. I've been pushing him hard because of something I saw in *another* universe," Jason says, taking half of the strips.

"I do *love* a bendy little boy—though probably not as much as—"

"*Do* feel free to gobble my crank, Big Bird."

Dick smacks his lips—

Sirens.

They grin at each other and start tying everyone up *faster*.

The rest of the night is easy and quiet. A little too quiet for *both* of them, Jason thinks, but it's good, too. A nice way to spend an evening, really.

Right now they're crouching on Tim's roof because Jason had led them there, and Jason can't help wondering...

Well, Tim is Tim, and if *Dick* didn't exist, there'd be a picture of Tim next to 'loyal' in the dictionary. His whole damned *life* for them—but. *Most* of that life had been for Dick, and Jason's not forgetting how Tim had reacted to *just* seeing Dick smile at him. *Dick* wouldn't want Tim to do anything he didn't want to do, wouldn't ever—

Motherfuck. He's jealous.

He's *jealous*. *Already*—

"Jay?"

"Heh. Ah—something you should know about Tim."

"He sleeps naked? Maybe has one of those little race car beds? I always wondered how you *would* go about having sex in one of those. I mean, all that hard plastic—"

"There's a reason they make those for *six* year olds," Jason says, and gives Dick a shove.

"Yeah, but *he* could still fit in one."

"Try *not* to harp on the size thing—"

"He's sensitive about it? You know he'll hear it all the time on the street—"

"He has a crush on you. Like, big-time."

Dick blinks at him—his lenses haven't been down for hours. "Seriously? On *me*?"

God, Dick. "Yes, Dick, on *you*. Since, like, *well* before his balls dropped."

"Which wasn't last week or anything *like* that—I know, I know, gobbling, cranks. I—Jeez. When I think about him maybe watching me and Bruce at one of those parties—"

"Definitely watching. And hoping. And thinking."

"So... what, did he have a crush on you and Bruce, too?"

Jason smiles ruefully. "*Not* like the one he has on you."

"And this is all present-tense, I—does he talk about me while the two of you are in bed or something?"

"No. But he also doesn't *have* to, because every time your name comes up... anyway, the completely innocent reason he has for talking to you is the hope that you'll talk about what it was like to partner with Bruce—the good *and* the bad. The *real* reason he wants to talk to you is that you're *you*, and that means one whole hell of a lot. So... be nice? I guess?"

"Wow, you... it's not just the presumably great sex for you, is it?"

And he *wants* to be offended for that—Tim's *family*—but. He hadn't exactly gone *into* things acting that way. Jason sighs. "I like him pretty good, yeah."

"And from *you* that's pretty much love poetry—"

"Oh, kiss *off*—"

"I think *not*... but I promise to be good and well-behaved and treat the Boy Stalker like he's one of my own and—anything else?"

Jason makes a point of looking thoughtful for a good, long moment—

"*Jay*—"

"Your hair's kind of a wreck. You could fix that."

"What was that you said earlier? Something about crank gobbling? And what does that even *mean*? Am I supposed to grab your dick and rotate it? What?"

"Just redo your damned ponytail. You look like—"

"I spent all night fighting crime?"

"You need a hair*cut*."

"Ooh, them's fighting words 'round here, partner." Dick puts up his fists and starts throwing short punches. "Put 'em up!"

"Fine, *don't* fix your hair. Ruin the poor kid's image of you *forever*. See if I care."

Dick sighs and strips out the hair tie, pushing it onto his wrist and shaking his hair out before raising an eyebrow.

"Okay, *now* you look like you should be on the cover of a romance novel."

"A romance novel with vigilantes? Like what, The Young and the Battish?"

"Dick."

"All My Robins?"

"Dick, those are *soap operas*."

"Guiding Batsignal?"

Jason rolls his eyes, sets his line, and rappels down the side of the building—

"One Life to—well, okay, that one doesn't work for *you*—"

\-- and into Tim's room, dark because he's—

"Jay..."

Not at *all* asleep. Heh. Jason turns on the little bedside lamp and sits down on the bed. "Brought you a present, kid."

Tim sits up and smiles. "You didn't—oh."

And about half a beat later, Jason hears the soft, controlled thud of Dick's boots on the floor. Tim is staring pretty hard, and hey, it's a fantasy, so Jason doesn't bother trying to get Tim's attention with more than a light stroke of his cheek with his fingertips.

"At last we meet," Dick says, and there's a slight pause before he's crawling *on* to the bed and sitting in a lotus near the foot—with his boots off.

Right. Jason sighs and takes off his own boots—

"Um. Hi. Nightwing. It's very nice to meet you," Tim says, and he sounds... pretty rigidly controlled, actually. *Barely* a step away from how he might've acted at one of those parties if Dick had somehow decided to introduce himself.

Jason sits up next to Tim at the head of the bed, grabbing Tim's shoulder and shaking him a little. "You're only being graded on this a *little*, I promise."

Tim looks down and blushes— "Ah... how little? Exactly?"

"You can pretend I'm naked if you think that'll help," and Dick is *waggling* his eyebrows—

Tim's expression is an excellent illustration of—

"Or maybe not," Dick says, expression shifting to rueful.

Yeah, *that*.

Tim blinks rapidly—blanks his face and generally sends out waves of bland, bland little boy—

"Hey, no—"

"*Not* that, Tim," Jason says, and shakes him again.

"I'm just trying to... not. Be. Um."

"Oh, you should absolutely *be* at me, Timmy—Jason said you haven't said whether or not—"

"It's Tim. I—please."

Dick nods. "Okay, then. That *is* what Jason thought, but it never hurts to ask. I *like* giving people nicknames," and Dick gives Tim one of those killer smiles...

Tim swallows, and it's funny. Dick has been smiling at him all night, and the smiles *haven't* been all that different from the ones he's given Tim—except when they've been *dirtier*—but somehow they seem a lot more intense when directed *at* Tim, and he's not sure why.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he *knows* how they must be affecting the kid. Jason squeezes Tim's shoulder—

"Um. I. Did you have any... questions? For me? I mean. I could answer, if you think—I'm going to stop talking."

Dick's smile turns rueful. "Hey, I'm just a guy, Tim. Jason told me a lot about you—and that makes you blush even more. *Please* tell me Jason has told you how much he cares about you?"

Tim turns to look at him, and the expression in *his* eyes is rueful. "He has... let me know. Yes. Sometimes it's still a little hard to believe, though," Tim says, and *very* deliberately slips closer, the slightly oversized pajama top tugging away from his throat and shoulder.

He looks just as pale as he *should*, but somehow being able to see the tracery of blue veins beneath the surface of his skin... no, not somehow. *Everything* is conspiring to make Tim look a lot more vulnerable as he is. Jason bumps Tim on his shoulder. "You'll get used to it."

Tim's eyes widen and he searches Jason's face, looking hopeful and suspicious at once—

Oh, yeah. He's *leaving*. Jason frowns and wraps an arm around Tim's shoulder, squeezing *while* being fully aware that he's giving a mixed message—

Tim turns back to Dick. "I have it on good authority that I have an issue or two with regards to interpersonal relationships."

Dick raises an eyebrow. "On *whose* authority?"

Tim smiles. "Every psychology text I've ever read, actually."

Jason snickers a little—

Dick looks like he's bitten something sour—he shakes it off. "Okay, fair, but remember that psychology is a *soft* science, Tim."

"Two words," Jason says, "Hugo and *Strange*."

"That, too. And, well... none of us are all that healthy, as these things go."

"Ah... yes. Jason had... mentioned. More than once."

Dick grins again. "I'll just bet. Just remember every time you feel a little crazy? You can't *possibly* be weirder than Bruce."

Tim laughs a little. "I... had picked that up. To a certain extent. I... um. About you and Bruce...?"

Dick sighs gustily and tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling, hair swinging a little and throat looking... yeah, Jason's just gonna go with hot. When he checks, Tim is scanning Dick at *speed*, lingering, by the looks of it, on the expanse of tanned chest exposed by the Nightwing suit.

Jason *doesn't* squeeze Tim's shoulder or shake him or anything else. He's being good and open-minded and all those other things, too—

And Dick tilts his head back down again *just* as Tim lifts his gaze—

Dick's smile *quirks*. "Don't tell me *you* have objections to my uniform, *too*?"

"Um. No? I know I barely know you, but it does seem to... suit?"

"Is that a *question*?"

"Yes, Nightwing, it's *definitely* a question," Tim says, and smiles a little more. "I'm... reserving final judgment."

Jason drums his fingers on the outside of Tim's far arm. "You gotta admit that's fair, Big Bird."

Dick's scowl is exaggerated to the point of cartoonishness—and then he tosses his hair. "Well, *fine*. Both of you can deny my beauty and stylishness all you want—*I* know I'm fabulous."

"Jesus, *how* much time have you been spending with Beast Boy, exactly?"

Dick snickers. "You should *see* him since he's gone Hollywood, Jay. It's something truly—special." He turns to Tim. "And *you* need to start calling me Dick."

"Oh... all right. Dick."

"If it *ever* gets hard? Just pretend you're Jason and *insulting* me."

Tim laughs quietly—

"Hey, I have *never* called you a dick—mainly because you would've *enjoyed* it too much, but still."

"Point, point... and we're getting afield. Me and Bruce, hunh, Tim?"

"If you feel like talking about it. I'm... um. Trying to get a picture of... everyone."

"*Family*, kid. As in the one you're a part of, now."

Tim blushes *again*—but presses his side against Jason's own for a brief moment. "All right. The family."

Dick's smile is sly as he looks back and forth between them. "Not to change the subject again, but... that was pretty damned cute."

"Yeah, yeah. You can be my flower girl, asshole. Get to the good stuff."

"And the bad, too, I suppose." Dick sighs and shakes his head. "The first thing you need to know about me and Bruce is that he had *every* intention of hiding the fact that he was Batman from me. He took me in and promptly disappeared from my life, telling me that he was in long meetings and working late—while investigating my parents' murder. It wasn't until I got too frustrated to cope and started trying to hunt down the killer on my own that he owned up, and then it was just... beautiful. Perfect. I thought I was having the best life any kid *could* have, even though I missed my parents like crazy, kept getting injured, and came to truly hate razor blades."

Tim nods. "It's definitely understandable. I... you always seemed so happy whenever I saw you."

"Which you did as much as you *could*, yeah. I can't *believe* I never noticed you. What did you do, hide behind plants at the parties?"

"Well, no, but... how many people my age notice smaller children who don't make an effort to *be* noticed?"

Dick tilts his head back and forth... "Okay, there's that, but I was trained *to* notice everything around me, and I've *had* a toddler point a gun at my head. Hell, how did *Bruce* not notice?"

Tim looks down—

"Don't—"

"Hey—"

Tim looks up again. "Ah—sorry. Force of habit. I can't really... answer those questions. I'm sorry."

Dick raises both eyebrows. "For watching?"

Tim's smile is very, *very* small—Jason can only really see it as a shifting of the kid's facial muscles—but it's very much there, just the same. "I... no. Not for that."

Jason strokes Tim's arm with his fingertips.

Dick gives another dazzling smile. "The courage of your convictions is a *good* thing... and boy, were you *ever*... uh. Convicted?"

Tim hums a laugh—

"Oh, that is *way* too much like Bruce. Laughter involves an *open* mouth, Tim. I will do my best to demonstrate that for you at *length*."

This time, Tim's smile is a little wider. "I promise to pay very close attention," he says, and mimes taking a picture.

"You know, I feel like that *shouldn't* be incredibly creepy, but—"

"Oh, it totally is," Jason says, and strokes Tim arm a little more. "You should *see* some of the shots he has of us."

"I was just trying to get the best possible pictures," Tim says, and he sounds *just* a little affronted.

Heh. "Yeah, *we* know. And how would *you* feel if you found out some freaky little stranger was following *you* around with a camera for years, kid?"

Tim manages to look *both* stubborn and a little queasy. "I—Nightwing, Robin, and Batman are—in a way—public figures. Which is not to say I wouldn't be a bit horrified. Um. All right, it's creepy. *I'm* creepy—"

"But *still*," Dick says, "not as creepy as Bruce."

"Not by a long road. Every once in a while? He *talks* to the empty suits. Which I'm not sure *I'm* supposed to know, but there you are," Jason says, and crosses his legs at the ankle.

"Mm-*hm*. Also? I've *seen* him frighten children with that smile of his."

"Did he ever frighten you?"

Dick smiles ruefully again. "God, no. The only thing that ever scared me about Bruce in those days was the idea of somehow not being his partner, anymore. Note: I never once even *considered* the idea of not being *Robin* anymore, even as something to be scared of."

"Oh... dear."

Dick snorts. "Yeah, pretty much. Like I said—it was *great* back then, for a good long while. I set 'em up, Bruce knocked 'em down. I came in high, Bruce came in low. If it was a *real* good night? He let me drive the *car*."

"Ooh. I mean—no, I mean 'ooh,'" Tim says, and shifts a little.

Jason laughs. "Yeah, kid. Look forward to *that*. Guaranteed erection, right there."

"*Jesus* yeah," Dick says, and mimes leaning back to drive. "And erections are nothing to *sneeze* at in the clothes *we* were wearing."

"Fucking A. The first time I had to patrol with a stiffie for more than an hour? I thought my dick was gonna be crippled for *life*."

"Or maybe just permanently stamped with those little scale things. And you *wonder* why I jumped down Clark's tights as soon as he made the offer."

"You had the *Titans*."

"Not *quite* yet," and Dick settles his arms on his knees, letting his hands hang. "Don't listen to Jason about Clark, Tim. He's a wonderful, beautiful, generous, loving, and ludicrously sexually talented man who longs to give pleasure to *everyone* he cares about. As Robin-to-be? You're already on that list."

To Tim's credit, he looks a little non-plussed. "Isn't that a little... um? I mean, he doesn't know anything about me."

"I'm willing to be that the second Bruce started talking about you out loud, Clark started paying attention—"

"Which? *Creepy*."

"He can't *help* being able to hear everyone everywhere. And he's *invested* in our little family," Dick says, and turns back to Tim. "He's funny, brilliant, kind, and just plain super in *every* possible way. Yes, he's an alien. Yes, he has terrifying god-like powers and can literally hear every sparrow fall. But if you give him a chance to *get* to know you? He'll be grateful and pleased beyond *all* measure. And then maybe you can spend some time learning just *how* super he really, really is."

"*Jesus*, Dick, stop trying to throw my—stop throwing him at the damned *alien*." Dammit—

Tim looks at him with an eyebrow *slightly* raised—and his smile is about as sunny as he's *ever* seen it.

All right, fine. "Just remember, kid—you *can* always say no."

"Yes, yes, of course you can," Dick says, making a complicated gesture that seems equal parts 'go on' and 'you're being a tool.' "But why *would* you? Just wait until you see him up *close*, Tim."

"He could *beat* people with that chin of his. And his hair? Is stupid," Jason says, and he's fully aware that he sounds about ten, but *dammit*—

"*You're* the one whose hair winds up in a double curl if you don't work at it. Like right *now*," Dick says.

"And *you're* the one who flies around just like someone couldn't grab your hair and slam your face into a wall, Dick—"

"My hair *rejects* evildoers, and also looks good wrapped around Kory's hands. *Anyway*, where was I?"

Tim clears his throat quietly. "Um. You were saying something about how you'd never imagined—"

"Losing Robin, right. Well, here's the deal: Robin? Was my mother's *nickname* for me. The last thing she ever said to me was 'knock their *socks* off, Robin,' and I did my best to do just that. Nobody else ever called me that, and deciding to call myself that when I started fighting crime was my way of keeping her memory green, if that makes sense?"

Tim nods.

Dick nods back. "Gradually, Robin got to be more and more about who I was with Bruce, and being with Bruce got to be more and more of who I was, *period*. So, when Bruce fired me..." Dick's eyes get distant, and the frown on his face says everything about how *much* that still hurts.

"I... I'm sorry, Dick, you really *don't* have to talk about this—"

"Yes, I do. I mean, I've talked about it a little with Jay, and with Kory and Roy, but I kind of think the more I *do* talk about it, the easier it is to deal with. And—you need to understand everything about what you're getting into, okay?"

Tim nods again, biting his lip—stopping.

"Okay. When he fired me, I wasn't just losing my best friend in the world, my home, and my *self*—I was losing a part of my mother, too. That part isn't Bruce's fault, really, but that doesn't mean I don't blame him for it. A part of me? Probably always will."

Jason shifts his feet until one of them is pressed against Dick's knee. Tim looks like he *wants* to be touching Dick in some way—his hands are curling in against the duvet—

Dick smiles at both of them. "I appreciate it, guys. I... yeah. It's been a few years, now, and I think I know most of what was going through his head with the jealousy and fear... I don't *understand* it, and I've mostly accepted the fact that I might *never* understand it, but I know. And, in the end? I *couldn't* be the partner Bruce needed me to be. Being Bruce's partner—*more* than being Robin—is kind of a full-time job. The Titans needed me, and I needed the Titans."

Tim looks thoughtful—and like he's filing everything away the way he should. "And... Nightwing? Came from Clark?"

Dick's smile gets wider. "Nightwing, according to ancient Kryptonian mythology, was a great hero, coming out of the darkness and bringing light. His partner was Flamebird—which is its whole weird and kind of *embarrassing* story—"

"Betty still after your ass?"

Dick winces and holds his thumb and forefinger slightly apart. "She's a great hero in her own right, a beautiful girl, and a very nice person. Just... not for me. Anyway. Becoming Nightwing felt both like a chance to acknowledge the two most important men in my life and like a chance to *become* my own man. No one's son or ward or partner or anything else—just me."

Jason smiles. "It looks good on you. Except for the suit."

"My parents would've *loved* this suit, I'll have you know. It's not very different from the kinds of things my Dad used to wear. *Therefore*—I get to have a piece of *him*, too."

"Circus freak."

"Street punk."

"Elviswing."

Dick smiles *meanly*. "Leather. Queen."

"Oh, *really*? Gaywad."

"*Gaywad*? Are you *serious*? Tim, do you let him get *away* with this crap?"

Tim smiles at both of them before turning to Dick. "He usually gives me... ah. Incentive?"

"Ooh, I'll just *bet*. And what *kind* of incentive would that be? He's been telling me how good he is in the sack since you were about *ten*. How's he measure up?"

Tim blushes *hard*—but keeps smiling. "I'd have to say he's worth it—"

"*Thank* you—"

"Not that I have much to compare him to."

"*Hey*—"

Dick snickers. "*Good* one. Now it's your turn to share."

"I—all right. There isn't much to tell, really. I mean, I'm sure Jay has told you everything—"

"He told me a *lot*, yeah—including some stuff that's making me almost *need* to have you get up and show me some stretches—but, there are other things I need to know. Like what it's like for you to have to lie to your parents and friends. Jay and I lost the former, and didn't really *have* the latter once we moved in with Bruce."

"Well. I... it's a little stressful, but so far... I mean, I haven't had to tell very. Um. *Big* lies? I suppose?"

"You will," Dick says. "You'll have to come up with reasons for missing birthday parties, for bruises and cuts on your face, for not being able to leave the city... all kinds of things, really. In a way, you've already chosen *our* family over your own—and you might not ever be able to have a *real* friend who isn't also a cape."

"I've thought about that... and. I miss Ives, who has been my closest friend since we were six. I miss Elfquest parties and movie nights, and... lots of other things. Little things. But even Ives..." Tim shakes his head. "He doesn't even believe Batman is *real*, and it's not like I could just show him my pictures. In a way, I've been lying to him by omission almost *since* we've known each other. It hasn't gotten... harder. Though I do wonder what kind of person that makes me."

Dick nods thoughtfully.

Jason gives Tim a squeeze. "It's fucked that we *have* to lie about who we are, Tim, but—we have to. The way I dealt with it—when I had to deal at all—was by reminding myself that I wasn't lying because I was a bastard, that I was lying for something better and greater than anything else."

"*That*," Dick says, bracing his hands on the mattress and swinging himself closer to Tim, close enough that he can reach to take Tim's hands in his own. "You really *can't* start second-guessing yourself on this stuff. I mean, you're going to *anyway*, since you're a good person, but you can't let it take over too much of your mind. That way lies some serious stress that you *don't* need."

Tim looks at Dick's hands on his own and starts blushing again, but he nods. "All right. I'll remember that—"

"And don't think I didn't notice that you didn't say a thing about the two people presumably sleeping peacefully down the hall."

"Well. They." Tim frowns. "They have lives of their own, and I've always done my best not to interfere."

Fucking *fuck*, he wants to beat them.

Dick—looks seriously confused. "Interfere? I don't think I get that. At all."

"I—"

"Tim. Tell him how many times they've asked you what you've been up to since I started training you."

Tim frowns harder. "Um. Twice."

"And would that be twice for *each* of them?"

"Jay—"

Jason squeezes Tim *hard* and turns to meet Tim's eyes. There's something behind them that looks small and scared *and* angry, and yeah, Dick needs to see that, too. "*Tell* him. And look him in the eye when you do."

The thing in Tim's eyes gets worse—but he turns. "Once. For each of them. They've been very busy with the company, and their travels, and like I said, they have lives of their own."

And *now* Dick looks like he has the whole picture, which is to say terrible and hurting *hard* for Tim—

"Dick, it's not—I think you're getting the wrong idea—"

"It's okay, Timbo," and Dick's smile is pretty fucking *awful*, but he's trying. "We've both met your parents. We understand that they're busy people."

"Look, I—" Tim twists and jerks away from Jason, tugging his hands away from Dick's own and pushing up onto his knees. "They *love* me, because I'm their son and because I'm a very good—I don't do anything to upset them, and they don't—I. I haven't *missed* that Jason and Bruce think that there's something wrong with them, but I wouldn't *have* any of you if they weren't just like that, so I think. I think you both should leave them to me, and have done with it."

Jason closes his eyes for a moment.

When he opens them, Dick looks like he's about a half second from a tacklehug which Tim *really* couldn't take right now. Jason shakes his head *minutely*—

Dick frowns and nods. "Okay, Tim. We can leave it. I just want you to know—and I *know* Jason feels the same—that we don't *have* to leave it. You can maybe tell us what your parents are up to with the company. Or... something."

Good save, but it loses points for the look that's still in his eyes, judging by the fact that Tim's holding himself like he really *wants* to be in a ready position. Jason reaches over *slowly* and curls his fingers into the waistband of Tim's pajamas. Tim tenses even more—and then relaxes himself, all over.

"I'm sorry," Tim says, and the frown on his face looks like it's aimed *inward*. "I think—I probably overreacted."

"Or maybe I'll just tell you about *my* parents someday, Tim," Jason says, and tugs on the pajamas. "You know—the *other* three."

Tim smiles at him cautiously. "You *have* focused heavily on the Bruce part of that equation."

"God only knows why," and he jerks his chin at Dick. "What about you, Big Bird? Can you think of any reasons?"

Dick's grin is sharp and very, very Nightwing. "Not a *single* one, little wing. I think you might have some kind of obsession."

"Damn. And I'm so fucking healthy in *every* other way. I think I'll go find myself a shrink."

Dick's smile gets wider—

"I think... I've heard of a good one in Arkham," Tim says. "Their success rate is so high."

And Dick looks fucking *ecstatic*. "Oh, yes. I mean, people are always getting *out*."

Tim's smile gets a little steadier. "I imagine they're eager to share the lessons they've learned inside with others."

Jason sits back and just watches a little—

"With as many people as *possible*, really," Dick says, and his smile gets sharper. "And you know, Jay could be pretty popular in there."

"I think his methods of making friends and influencing people would allow him to find the sort of common ground that we all wind up searching for, sooner or later," Tim says, making his voice earnest and about as low as it gets.

"Common—" Dick bites his lip and *stares* at Tim. "Have I mentioned that I like you, yet? Because I really, really do."

"Oh—" Tim blinks a few times. "I like you, too, Dick."

"Well, *good*," and Dick turns to Jay. "I think Tim and I are already doing better than *you* and I did, little wing."

"Heh. Like you *wouldn't* drag him onto a train if there was one nearby."

"You shush," Dick says, turning back to Tim. "Trainsurfing is for *after* you're officially Robin."

"Train... surfing? I... imagine that's exactly what it sounds like."

"Heh. Maybe I'll bring out the *blindfolds*."

Jason snorts and thinks about Tim's balance, his reflexes... yeah, he could do it. Probably *sooner* than Jason had been able to manage. He looks at Tim—

And Tim is looking at him, eyes full and a smile just kind of holding *court* at the corners of his mouth. Yeah.

"C'mere."

Tim sits down again, not *quite* snuggling close, but there's something of that *to* it, and it ends with Jason's arm around him again and Tim's cheek pressed against his jacket.

There are *way* too many layers between that cheek and Jason's *skin*, but... he can deal.

And the smile on Dick's face *should* be making Tim blush again, but he's not tense, at all. *Good* deal.

"*I* think... it's probably time for *me* to go," Dick says, and claps his hands on his thighs.

Tim shifts a little. "You really don't have to. I mean—"

"*You* have to spend all day training tomorrow, little... brother? Yes? No?"

Jason doesn't *have* to be able to see Tim's face to know just how he's looking right now—it's all over *Dick's* face, making him seem both rueful and a little cautious. Maybe it's time for a save—

"You can—I'd like it. If you called me that," Tim says.

And all the caution and ruefulness melts right off Dick's face. "Then little brother it is," Dick says, and looks to Jason. "You know you have to come up to the city. I know it, you know it, Tim knows it, Raven—who isn't even on this *plane of existence* at the moment—knows it."

"Dick..."

"Don't give me that, little wing—"

"I'll try," Jason says, and raises the hand he doesn't have on Tim. "Okay? I'll try."

Dick kind of scowls at him, but it's *Dick*, and so it's just not as dark as it would be on just about *anyone* else.

And... Tim puts his hand on Jason's thigh. Lightly, cautiously—

"Yeah, Tim?"

"It would be nice... to go up to New York together."

And *how* much had that cost him? Considering everything? Jason *thinks* it's a lot, but it would have to be measured against the way Dick is smiling at Tim right now, and... who knows, really? "I could send you to their gym with Dick for a few hours..."

"He already *has* a nice little domino," Dick says, and— "How *do* you like that uniform, Tim? Does it feel Robinly enough for you?"

Tim shifts again and squeezes Jason's thigh with his strong little hand. "Actually, I wondered about that when Jason first showed me the suit, but... the truth is that people were *calling* me Robin out there even when I was just wearing street clothes with body armor under them."

Dick raises an eyebrow. "Jay, you took him out there without—"

"*With* armor. And a domino I made myself," Jason says. "Save being scandalized for other things, Big Bird."

Dick looks like he *wants* to frown, but they both know Tim's his—at least for *this* kind of thing. And Bruce's, of course. Though it's *also* not like Dick won't be coming down to give Tim acrobatics training whenever he can once he *does* see what Tim can do—

And he really should be happy about that—the more training Tim gets, the *better*, and this *was* part of the plan, in a way...

It wasn't a good plan.

*That* part of the plan *was* good—

Hell.

Tim is stroking and squeezing Jason's thigh, now, and Dick's giving Jason an *understanding* look, just like this kind of jealousy is *normal*, as opposed to irrational and ridiculous.

"*Anyway*," Jason says, and gives Dick a little shove with his foot. "Like I said, I'll try. And Tim can *always* go up on his own."

"Not without... ah. Compromising my identity," Tim says, shifting to look up at Jason. "And... if they know who you and Dick are, they presumably know who Bruce is. *Why* am I keeping my identity a secret, exactly?"

Good—

"Good question," and Dick shakes his head. "Call it Bat-reflexes? When I outed myself to the Titans, I kind of shifted a *very* big balance. I should've considered it more deeply than I did, but... well, they were already my family, and I was sick of being called 'Robbie' at times when people really *should've* been using my name. Anyway, what it *means* is that every Titan from now on is *going* to know who I am, and who *Bruce* is, and thus who *Robin* is—or so I thought."

"Thought?"

"Well, you're in kind of a *unique* position, kid," and Jason curls his fingers in enough to stroke Tim's collarbone a little. "You *won't* be living with Bruce—" At least until Bruce hopefully fails to save your parents, even though I don't know how that's going to *work*—"Anyway. It's really your call. It *might* be a good idea to have a stealth Robin, it might be a *better* idea for you to have a big, friendly group of capes to call on whenever things get too fucked up in Gotham."

"I... see. I think I'll have to think about it."

Dick and Jason nod pretty much together—and then Dick is in motion, yanking Tim away from Jason—

"I—what—"

\-- and into one of his Dick-special hugs. Jason shakes his head and pulls one knee up, planting his foot and just... watching it happen like it's the fucking *inevitable* thing it is.

After a moment, Dick eases his grip *just* enough that Tim can get comfortable while still being *enveloped*, and—

How do you like the way he smells, Tim? Is it the same as what you remember from all those years ago?

"Mm. You feel *good*, Tim," Dick says, and starts stroking Tim's back, squeezing with his thighs—

Tim makes a soft noise and hugs Dick back—

"Ooh, yeah. *Good* response strategy," and Dick rolls them until Tim's on his *back*—

Jason snorts. "Dick—"

"Can't talk, hugging."

Tim makes a choked noise and starts *patting* Dick a little—

Dick hums and kind of *rolls* them back and forth—

Jason snickers. "*Seriously*, Dick—"

"You are *no* fun at all, Jay. You agree with me, don't you, Tim?" And Dick pulls back enough that he can look—*gaze* down at Tim with the kind of happiness Dick *only* gets when he's wrapped around someone.

"Um?"

With him, with the Titans, *probably* with Bruce once upon a time... Jason shakes his head—

"Well, okay, I guess Jay probably is at least a *little* fun—I know he's waiting *impatiently* to enact some of that fun with *you*..." Dick waggles his eyebrows—

Tim swallows. "It seems. Ah. To be the case?"

Dick laughs a little and kisses Tim's forehead—

"Um. Dick. You should probably. Oh... dear."

Dick's grin gets sharper. "Yeah, I felt that. When I was your age? I'm pretty sure I was hard at least as often as I wasn't, little brother, so just... relax?"

Right. *Really*. Jason scrubs a hand over his face, pulling a little—

"I can try. To relax, that is. Dick, I don't mean to—I mean I know you're not... flirting—"

"Oh, I'm totally flirting," Dick says. "Everyone says I do it all the time, but the *truth* is that I only do it on purpose—"

Jason makes a *point* of coughing—

Dick sticks his tongue out at him and before turning back to Tim. "Don't listen to him. I'm very *conscientious* about my flirting. I wouldn't want people to get—"

"The absolutely *right* idea, you whore—"

"I am *not* a whore. I'm a perfectly sort of almost monogamous—"

"That... sounds a bit like being 'almost pregnant,' Dick," Tim says, and it's clear that he's *trying* to wriggle a bit—maybe to keep his dick from *jabbing* Dick—and it's equally clear that Dick's having none of it.

Dick is, in fact, headbutting Tim lightly and repeatedly.

"Ah... yes?"

"Do you have any *idea* how many women you're screwing through little wing over there, little brother?"

Tim *shivers*—and closes his eyes for a moment—

"Uh—whoa," Dick says, and headbutts him again. "You okay down there?"

"Y-yes. Very okay, really. Just a bit... I have the distinct sense that I'm going to remember this every time you call me 'little brother' in the future."

"I can *work* with that," and Dick grins up at Jason. "Can I keep him? Just for a little while?"

Jason makes a little show of studying his fingernails before buffing them on his shirt. "I dunno, Big Bird. You been a good boy, lately?"

"Oh, I'm *always* a good boy, Jay. Some might even say I'm an *excellent* boy."

"He thinks of you as his son, Dick. I—all right, that probably seemed like a non sequitur. Because it was. Um."

Jason chokes and *winces*—

Dick is looking at Tim like he'd just grown two heads—

"I'm sorry," Tim says, looking a little panicked. "We could all pretend I didn't just say that."

"Uh—no," Dick says, and rolls them again until Tim is straddling him. "He said that? Out *loud*?"

Tim looks at Jason, clearly wanting *help*—

Jason shrugs and gives Tim a rueful smile. "You said it, kid."

"I—so I did," Tim says, taking a breath and looking down at Dick. "He said it, yes. He also said you were only the second friend he'd ever had, and... the implication seemed to be that you wouldn't ever want him around you again."

Dick's frowning and his eyes are searching *wildly*, and Jason doesn't think he *could* be any more obvious about going over every even remotely related memory in his mind.

Jason reaches over and squeezes Dick's shoulder. "Dick—"

"He *said*—that he'd never be my father. Never *try* to be my father. I. The *hell*, Jay, why didn't you tell me—"

"Because it's something he needs to say to you for himself."

Tim winces hard. "I'm really sorry. It's not my business, at all—"

Dick laughs, cracked and high. "That's where you're *wrong*, little brother. It *is* your business, and Jay's, and Babs'..." Dick squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them, they're clear again, determined— "I have to talk to him. If I have to *chain* him to that damned Case, I'll make him sit still for it."

Jason debates telling Dick that, given the time, there's a pretty good chance of finding Bruce on *that* rooftop right over there... but that just leads to questions that *really* don't need answers right now. He squeezes Dick's shoulder, instead. "You guys will work it out sooner or later, Big Bird. It *can't* last the way it is."

"See, that's what I keep *thinking*—" Dick growls and strokes Tim's sides restlessly— "Hey, you've got some good definition under there."

Tim blushes. "I—thank you. I really am sorry—"

"Shush," and Dick starts unbuttoning Tim's pajama top with an expression somewhere in the middle of distraction, anger, and curiosity.

Tim gives him another 'help me' look, and yeah, the kid's packing some heat.

"You don't have to let him," Jason says. "You're not training right now."

"Right. Um—" Tim catches Dick's hands as they get up to the second button from the top. "Dick?"

"Hm? What? I just want to see how far you've gotten, Tim. It's all right," Dick says, twisting his hands free of Tim's own and pushing them *under* the top to—pet.

Tim's eyes are wide as *hell*, and yeah, he's tense—

"Definitely good definition. You're going to be a lot more wiry than either Jason or I was." And—

Jason is absolutely positive that Tim has no *idea* that he's plucking at the button he hadn't let Dick open.

"I—well. You. Um. Do you think I should be working harder to... fill out?"

"Hm? Oh, I... no. If it's going to happen, it'll happen on it's own. Just eat Alfred's cooking the way you've been doing—or. Hm. Ask Bruce what you should be eating when you're here with your family."

Jason nods. "Learn to cook if you have to. It'll *be* simple things."

Tim nods and drops his hands.

Dick smiles. "Yeah?"

Tim nods again and, by the look of his jaw, bites the *inside* of his lip.

And then Dick is pushing Tim's top down off his shoulders—

"Oh, what the *hell*, Jay? Those are *knife* scars."

Yeah, that. Jason shakes his head. "Hunting knife scars, to be exact, Dick."

Dick looks at him like he's lost everything *resembling* his mind, but for some reason Jason just can't get too fucked up in his head about it—no, he knows the reason.

"Dick, it's—kink," Tim says, and strokes the scars on his pec with his fingertips.

Dick growls and sits up, pushing until Tim is bent back over Dick's legs, dick doing its level best to push its way out of Tim's pajamas—

"You. Tim. Where the hell did *you* pick up a kink like that?"

"From Jay—"

"My *point*," Dick says, and he's stroking Tim restlessly, going over the scars again and again—

"I think you're *missing*... um. The point, actually. I'm always going to have something of Jay's like this. No matter what."

"You—are a lot more muscular than I thought you were, which is very, very good, and keep it up, but Jesus fucking Christ, Tim, have you thought about this? You can't go *swimming*—"

"Chlorine irritates my sinuses and I hate the beach. Ah—do you think I could sit up?"

"Not yet—good flexibility, too, just like Jay said—*Jay*, he's too *young* for this kind of kink—"

"I disagree," Jason says, and reaches out to stroke the cap of Tim's knee a little—

"So do *I*," Tim says, and sits up anyway, rubbing his thighs—stopping and staring up at Dick. "I wasn't planning to share that aspect of our sex life with you, but not because of shame."

Dick's frowning hard. "I feel like I should be taking Jay out of here and *beating* him—"

"Or *trying* to—"

Dick lifts Tim and moves him— "Don't fuck with me right now, Jay. Tell me *why*."

And to get Dick to curse like *that*—Jason shakes his head. "Kink, Dick. Emotional and otherwise—"

"That's not *good* enough—"

"It really is," Tim says. "And you should probably lower your voice a little."

"I—sorry, Tim, your parents—grah. What happens when Jay runs out of *skin*?"

"I have to be honest, Dick—I'm rather more worried about what happens when my—ah, *other* lifestyle choices start leaving less attractive marks."

"Attractive. Marks. You—Tim, are you *sure*?"

"Scarification has a long and rich history in any number of cultures—and it really made me a lot less squeamish about the sight of blood."

Hunh. "You were squeamish?"

"Exceedingly so," and Tim smiles at him before moving closer to him on his knees. "I'm glad I managed to hide it."

"Aspect. Of your sex life. Attractive marks. Scarification—" Dick squeezes his eyes shut again and shakes his head. When he opens them, he's looking at Jason with an almost pleading expression. "And you picked this up from Talia?"

"Some of her... acquaintances, actually. And business associates. Look, Dick, I know it's pretty out there, but as far as 'completely fucked up' goes, I think it's way more of a problem that I took Tim's virginity *months* ago and did it without being at all sure in my head how I *felt* about him. That's something else I can't even begin to take back—"

"Jay, no, it's okay—"

"Just relax for a second Tim," Jason says, and pulls him close again, petting his hair and his back—

"Oh, God, they're on his back, *too*. Jay—"

"*Dick*. Think about what I'm saying, here. It's not abuse if everyone is on the same page. If it *is*—then our entire lives are even more fucked than we thought they were."

Dick sighs and scrubs a hand back through his hair—and steps off the bed to pace a little.

In retrospect, Jason thinks he probably should've seen this coming. Seen *more* of it than he had, anyway, and Dick—

Dick looks good no matter what he does, but there's something about the sight of him *agitated* that adds a whole extra layer to how ridiculously hot he is. It's the kind of thing that's gotta make a guy—and a whole *lot* of women—want to hold him down, a little, and make him take and take until he's still again, or at least moving in ways that feel good for everybody.

Add the sharp violence of *some* of those movements—the snapping turns, the gestures that don't go anywhere or communicate anything—and you've got the recipe for a seriously dangerous night... and one you're not fucking likely to forget.

"Tim."

"I'm listening, Dick."

"I—little brother. *Were* you both always on the same page?"

"Ah—no. I read ahead, as it were. I couldn't help it. Jay is always going to be the man who took me out of myself and made me better, made me into someone who can be useful and even *important*. I'm going to be Robin—and maybe I would've been even without him, but that's an entirely different world, and maybe an entirely different Tim. And—I think you understand what that means."

And Dick looks—Jason can't really place it. There's sadness in it, and maybe even misery, but there's also something like *exultation*, something irrational, religious, and terrifyingly *pure*. It makes Jason want to make sure Tim *never* goes to New York, and it makes him want to beat Bruce bloody, because—

"I always... I always just wanted to *show* him, to prove to him that there wasn't anything I couldn't be without his help, his guidance, his—" Dick laughs and pushes *both* hands through his hair, holding it back and tilting his head up. "His approval."

That. Jason winces on the *inside*. "I think we all pretty much get that, Dick—"

"Except that it's *not* Bruce for Tim, Jay, it's *you*," and Dick takes his hands out of his hair and lets them hang at his sides. "How does it feel? I'm not being a—heh—dick about it, I really want to *know*. Because I'm going to *talk* to that man tonight, and I really need to *get* it."

"It's scary as hell, Dick. Like nothing else. I look in Tim's eyes and I think—I can't possibly deserve this. I can't possibly be *worth* this, and wonder what happens when I fuck up. And I *have* fucked up a *lot*, but Tim's still right here—"

"I always will be," Tim says, quiet and sure.

Jason urges Tim to turn around and then wraps an arm around Tim's chest and pulls him closer, holds him *tight*. "There's *that*. Right there. See, I knew that—the way a *part* of Bruce has always known that *you'd* never really leave him. And he fears it and hates it, because it means that he's never going to be *free* of you, and he loves it and fucking *craves* it, because it means that he's never going to be free of you. And it's the same damned thing for me, so I maybe try to push Tim away, try to make him imprint on Bruce a little, but I can't fucking stand the idea that it might *work*, because I love Tim, and I need him... And you know, when Tim starts making *real* friends in this life? When he turns to Bruce or finds some vigilantes his own age? I'm probably going to be a complete *dick* about it, because I don't *want* him to be free..." Jason laughs. "Is any of that making sense?"

"I never would've left him. Not for anything," Dick says, sighing and going to the window, holding onto the sill and probably not seeing much of anything— "Wow, there are some seriously good sight-lines to this building."

Yeah, *about* that... Jason grunts non-committally and kisses the top of Tim's head.

Dick sighs again. "I'm going. I *meant* to go before, and maybe I should've—no, all of this is good information, even though I think I'm probably more confused than I was before."

"We're still family, Big Bird. That's what matters."

Dick looks back over his shoulder and grins. "Sappy, sappy, *sappy*. I think you have to give up your leather jacket for something... oh, let's say *floral*."

Tim snorts.

"Let's say sit and *spin*, *Dick*."

"You *wish*."

"So would *you* if you had half a clue of—heh—what you were *missing*," Jason says, pumping his hips a little. Just enough to bounce Tim—

Who moans *impressively*, because yeah, he's been hard for a *while*.

Dick has the nerve to look *shocked*—and then laughs. "Riiight. *Okay*, then, I'm gone. *Try* to play nice."

"I rather think... ah. That we always do," Tim says, and *grinds* against Jason's thigh. Which is one big, serious, *fuck* yeah.

Jason pushes his hand into Tim's hair and yanks his head back for the kiss he thinks he's been needing since Tim had walked *out* earlier. Tim still tastes a little bit like sleep—meaning he *did* get a little rest before all of this, which is, in its way, as much of a relief as the kiss itself—and he's kissing Jason like his life depends on it.

It's not that Jason isn't aware of Dick laughing quietly over by the window, it's just that he doesn't pick up the end of the laugh or even realize that Dick's gone until the kiss is over and he's licking his lips.

Which... Dick has things he needs to do. Jason sends a wish out to the multiverse for him and starts stripping—

"Oh, thank God," Tim says, and goes for his pants. "I think I've been terminally spoiled, Jason."

"Heh. Sex on demand?"

"*Yes*. And—you don't have to get entirely naked, but I'd have to say that I'd appreciate it."

"Oh, yeah? How much?" And Jason starts working on the catches of the armor.

"Um. A lot? Very much? Googolplex?"

Jason snickers and lifts his hips so Tim can tug his pants, jock, and boxer-briefs down. "*Geek*. I really should've guessed you were back in my own world—"

"Maybe I wasn't. Maybe I was *straight* in that other world, and not at all socially awkward, and also imbued with a strong, native self-confidence," Tim says, and wraps a hand around Jason's dick.

"Mm. Well—you did have a lot of friends, but they were pretty much all capes as far as I could see."

"Which would make sense, considering—Jay. You feel incredible and I've been thinking about having your dick in me and your knife at my throat since—ah. The rimming, actually."

"Ooh," Jason says, using his very *best* Dick voice—

"That's *disturbing*. Mostly because I'm trying and failing to imagine Dick cutting patterns into my skin... I. Wow. I got to know *Dick*. Dick was *here*, and we *talked*. About multiple things—" Tim blinks and shakes it off. "I'm done, but it had to be said," and the stroke Tim gives him is hard and *fast*, absolutely designed to get Jason to the point where he'd fuck Tim even if his ass was *already* bleeding—

All right, maybe not that— "Hey, slow down a little—"

"Please don't make me do that, Jay—"

"I need a little bit of talk out of you, and I want my *whole* brain for it," Jason says, tucking his hand under Tim's chin and lifting his head.

Tim makes a little choked sound and slows his stroke. "Your wish..."

"That was downright *snippy*. I like it. Anyway, you know I won't be upset with you if you ever do find yourself coming all over Dick someday, right?"

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Jay. That's something of a contradiction—"

"Oh, I didn't say I wouldn't be *upset*. I just said I wouldn't be upset with *you*. There's a big, big difference between the two—and I know everything he said and did tonight might as well have been designed to make you love him even more than you already did."

Tim looks—stubborn. "I'm not. I'm in love with *you*, Jay. And I'd rather not imagine spending time with anyone who *isn't* you—unless you're there, as well."

Jason raises his own eyebrows. "Yeah? Just like that? Even after everything today?"

"Especially after everything today, and—I did already mention—"

"You did, you did... mm. I love your hands. I love how hard and fucking *vicious* they are—yeah, *on* my sac—"

"Jay," Tim says, licking his lips and letting his eyes go a little hazy, letting his lips stay parted—

"You make me want to give you *everything*. You know that, right?"

Tim's smile is quick and sharp. "Then I *will* get your dick up my ass tonight...?"

"And you sound *fantastic* when you talk dirty. *Good* boy," Jason says, and pulls Tim in for another kiss, and another one after that, and another one after *that* until Tim is doing his best to crush Jason against the wall with his body and grinding their dicks together—Jason pushes. "Pajama pants *off*."

Tim *grins* at him and stands up on the bed, pushing the pants down and balancing for a minute as he looks down at Jay like a project well... *begun*. Heh.

Jason scoots down until he's lying on his back with Tim casting a nice, even shadow over him. Bruce's shadows always shift, somehow—even when he's being still. Just another one of the creepy little things about him which—maybe—Tim will grow into.

Or maybe *not*, because the smile on Tim's face couldn't frighten anyone but the coward in Jason, the one who wants to run *solely* because this is too much—

It's only too much for the parts of him he doesn't like. Jason grabs for the slick, pushing a pillow out of true—knife. The *first* knife he'd given Tim to be exact about it, and... he pulls it out. "Who *else* were you expecting, kid?"

"Ah—no one," Tim says, and kneels down over Jason's thighs. "Though sometimes I find myself feeling paranoid whenever I pass an alley or wake up in the middle of the night. That's—not why, though."

Jason nods. "An increase in paranoia is normal for this life. I *highly* recommend avoiding civilian friends who like to throw surprise parties or tickle people."

Tim laughs quietly. "Noted. I—um. Just like having it there when I'm sleeping."

That... "I used to like sleeping with a gun under my pillow in my own universe. It... confirmed things for me the way nothing else could. The smell, the feel..."

"You've... shot people?"

"Eight of 'em. Then, I beheaded them and brought their heads to a meeting of their—former—lieutenants. At the time, it seemed like the best way to help put an end to the gang war that was strangling the city—and, more than that, it seemed like the *very* best way to make a point about who I really was. It took three nights to get them all, with me shoving those heads in my refrigerator so the stink wouldn't chase me out of my base..."

"Jay, I..." Tim shakes his head and crawls close again, wrapping his arms around Jason's neck and squeezing.

"No, Tim, you don't have to do that. I'm not—"

"Forgive me, Jason, but I think you are. I think it really—fucked with you, and you're only just now acknowledging that fact. It's not about me trying to convince you that you're someone you're not, and it's not about me pitying you, either. It's just... wanting to be close to you. For this. Because you shared with me."

"Jesus, Tim. I've shared a whole lot of things—"

"*Not* things that made you doubt yourself, except in terms of relationships. And I'm not denigrating those things, either. I just—it's okay if you're not sure about things. I don't need you to be perfect in every possible way," Tim says, and pushes his face against Jason's neck. "I know you're a man."

Jason closes his eyes and strokes Tim's back, thinking about the things unsaid, like whether the men had deserved it, whether he would do it again... and Jason remembers the exact moment when he had gone to pull on his jacket for the last time in that other world, when he'd *looked* at the holster with the nine millimeter nestled inside...

When he'd turned away and put the jacket on. There hadn't been any pull, and there hadn't been any sense of freedom, either. There's nothing stopping him from getting another gun—or a dozen of the things. It's just that there's nothing *driving* him to do it, either.

Jason turns and kisses Tim's ear. "Loving Dick would be a lot easier on you in the long run, you know."

"Mm. Because I like so many things the *easy* way."

Jason laughs. "Noted, 'little brother.'"

Tim pulls back and smiles ruefully. "That was rather nice. I think my inner toddler passed out from joy an hour ago. Dick is very... he's very *exuberant*."

"Uh, huh," and Jason strokes Tim's sides, his chest... he pinches Tim's nipples *nice* and hard—

"Nnh—Jay. There's not much—I won't be able to take much."

"Tell me what you'd let him do to you, Tim. Just, you know—if I was *there*."

Tim laughs and shakes his head. "I suppose... I'd want to know what *he* liked. I'd want to make him smile. As much as possible."

Jason grins. "*Nobody* smiles the way he does," and he pinches Tim's nipples one more time before sliding his hands down and back so he can cup Tim's ass, *feel* it... "Please tell me you got a look at that ass."

"Oh, I really, really did. Um. Have you... ever seen him naked?"

"Heh. Showers at the Tower are *also* communal. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing—especially since they're unisex."

Tim blinks and frowns—even when Jason slides two fingers into his cleft.

"What is it, Tim?"

"I just... they'd all *been* together since they were fourteen years old or younger... oh, could you—oh, yes, Jay, that *feel*—"

Just *pressing* on his hole while circling it a little. Teasing them both. But— "It bugs you?"

"It seems... I mean. *None* of the other heroes were thinking about teen sexuality?"

Jason grins. "Well, firstly—you know they didn't always have that Tower, right?"

Tim nods.

"Yeah, so they had a *place*. And the other heroes... I think they were *all* thinking about it—and hoping the Titans would fuck themselves stupid with *appropriate* people. People who could know all the secrets, people who probably wouldn't turn out to be supervillains or reporters... that kind of thing."

Tim manages to look both dazed with lust and *thoughtful*, which is impressive enough that Jason has to kiss him a little. His forehead, his cheeks, his sweet little mouth...

"Tell me more about you and Dick. His dick is a little shorter and leaner than mine. Plumps up when it's hard, but not that much—"

Tim groans and swallows, searching Jason's eyes. "I'd want... I'd want to see how that felt. In my mouth."

Jason smiles and presses a little harder on that hole, settles his free hand on Tim's hip... "Yeah? Want me to hold your head while you do it?"

Tim *bucks* for him—

"Hell, yeah. Believe me when I say I'm taking *note*. He could fuck you harder than I could, too."

"Would you... want to see that?"

Jason smiles a little wider and leans in to lick Tim's cheek, the corner of his eye... "Sometimes I think I want to see all *kinds* of people fucking you. Dick, Bruce, *Babs*..."

"Could you explain the appeal? It doesn't seem to jibe with what you've said about your own... um. Capacity for jealousy."

"I *never* claimed to make sense in my own head, kid," Jason says, and stops petting for long enough to get his fingers good and slick. "Still, I think a lot of it boils down to wanting to show everyone what I *have* in you. How good you are, how crazy you make me... you're *supposed* to share good things with your family, right?"

Tim blushes for him, but that doesn't stop him from looking wry. "If they're my family, too... what am *I* sharing?"

"They are—*we* are your family. And you're sharing... you," and it's just as perfect as it always is to push two fingers inside Tim, even though a part of him—crazy and *slow*—wants to look for Bruce's saliva, for the *tracks* of his brutal, brutal tongue. "Your sense of humor, your shyness, your moments of *cuteness*—"

"I really don't want to be cute—oh, *fuck*, Jay, *deep*—"

"Too bad, 'Timbo.' You were really *giving* it to him tonight. All those shy little looks from under your lashes, those tiny, bright smiles—"

"I give those to *you*, too—"

"But you *also* give me other things to play with," Jason says, and starts a twisting thrust designed to make Tim really *feel* the fact that it's two, that Jason's hands are *just* that big—

"Like." Tim puts his hands on Jason's shoulders and holds on tight. "Like what?"

"Fishing?"

"I prefer to think of it as—ah. My continued studies into a rich and complex subject oh god faster."

Jason laughs and bites Tim's ear, then the other one. "Hot little boy. You give me *this*, for one. The way you're moving for me, the way you can order and beg and plead without stumbling or stammering—"

"I'm well-*trained*—"

"Some people *never* get it. Trust me on that."

"I—all right."

"There's the way you study everything, look *into* everything before making your own conclusions, too. I like that *and* it scares the hell out of me."

"You. Shouldn't be scared. Oh. Oh, *please*, Jay, you feel so good—"

"Yeah, *squeeze* my shoulders, Tim. Really feel them. Fucking *know* them—"

"With my eyes closed *and* drugged. Jay, I love your body, you really are—beautiful. And I hate reminding you of Bruce."

"*Air* reminds me of Bruce, kid. He's a big part of my *world*, even now, and nothing is gonna change that—"

"I. I know that, sorry—*fuck*—"

"*Don't* do that," Jason says, and eases his fingers out most of the way from that last shove. "I—*are* you jealous of me and Bruce? You've never—"

"Said anything, I know. It's just—I don't think. No, I'm going to answer your question, and then... I'll have said it," Tim says, and his smile is tight and tense in ways that don't *belong* to a moment like this one—

But Jason can be patient. "Go ahead."

"I want—the way you talk to each other. You touch and laugh and look in each other's eyes and see each other perfectly. Or—almost perfectly. I think Bruce maybe sees a version of you that you *think* never really existed—"

"It didn't—"

"And I think you see a version of Bruce that only ever existed for *you*."

Jason frowns, but— "I. All right, I can see it. He has... he told me, once, that he saw me as his friend. His *closest* friend at that time, in ways that had only ever been true for Dick, *Clark*, and Harvey fucking Dent, and being in that company... hell, being Bruce's *friend*—when he was old enough to be my *father*—was a whole hell of a lot of *stress*," Jason says, and tugs Tim's hip until he moves a couple of inches closer, until the head of his dick *just* brushes against Jason's abdomen every few breaths. "You want us to be... comfortable?"

Tim closes his eyes, and they're tracking fast behind the lids before he opens them again—and nods.

"And you think that's a lot to ask—no, I know you do, because you look like you *want* to look away." Jason shakes his head and starts thrusting again. "It's not a lot to ask. It's the least of what you deserve."

"If you—say so."

"I know so. Because I need you, and your twisted up little mind, and the way you see the patterns in things that just look like chaos to me... you're going to be one *fuck* of a detective one day, Tim. You already *are*."

"I—*is* it that I remind you of Bruce? I... God, you can just... I think. Ah."

"*This* thrust?"

"Yes. Yeah. Please—"

"Anything you say, baby bro—"

"Oh, *fuck*—" And the rest of that is a groan loud enough that Jason has to clap a hand over Tim's mouth, because he's coming so hard that he's jerking like he's been tasered. His eyes are rolled up in his head and he's *gripping* Jason's shoulders—

He's shaking and *grunting* as he shoots—

He slumps and turns his face away from Jason's hand. "*Damn*."

"A little too much stimulation?"

"I—apparently," Tim says, panting and frowning *darkly*. "I really wanted you *in* me before I did that."

"Hey, don't get too upset, Tim," and Jason cups the back of Tim's head. "You're *thirteen*. You don't get to *have* that kind of control all the time."

"I *know* that—intellectually. Emotionally... it's something of a different story."

Jason smiles. "Next time you get too close like that, just try to *remind* me of what I'm supposed to be doing. I got a little too distracted, there."

"Mm. I—suppose there'll be times when you *want* me to come like that, as well?"

"Got it in one," Jason says. "Come here and kiss me."

Tim kneels up and lets go of Jason's shoulders to wrap his arms around Jason's neck again, and the kiss is slow and *hard*, filled with Tim's frustrations and the hunger Jason's touching with his fingers, the hunger Jason's *feeding*—though not enough.

After a while, Tim stops licking enough that Jason can suck his sharp little tongue, and Tim slides his hands into Jason's hair, petting and tugging and giving Jason a little itch beneath the skin. Would Dick feel this and wonder a little? Have a moment to really *deal* with the fact that he's getting turned on by a kid who *has* to be old enough—but only because thinking he isn't would make too many of his own memories fucking *suspect*?

Is it really any better that Jason *knows* his own memories are suspect? What does *owning* this really do for him—other than making it *easier* to do what his dick wants, anyway?

Jason does his best to shake it off internally. Dick has his way of doing things—of *living*—and he has his own. And hell, maybe Dick is *right*. He certainly never went hungry because he couldn't stand to open his own fucking refrigerator—

No, not that either. He can't be forgiven and he can't fucking brood on it, either. The world doesn't work that way—whether or not it should—and Tim deserves better. Jason starts thrusting again, tongue and fingers, working more on *preparing* than pleasuring—

And Tim makes a *pleased* noise and starts working his hips for him, tugging harder on Jason's hair and licking the underside of Jason's tongue *lightly*. Just enough to be a tease, to make Jason salivate more—

And then Tim takes *one* hand out of Jason's hair and shoves it between them, jerking Jason hard and fast—

Jason pulls back. "That the way you want me to fuck you?"

"I—know you can't stay long, but—"

"There will *be* more nights when we can *have* the whole night—"

"Or the *late* night and some of the morning. I—you know my parents are going away again soon."

Jason nods. Fucking obscene to be thinking of *this* trip *that* way, but he can't—

"Jay...?"

"Just hating your folks a little, kid. *Nothing* for you to deal with."

"I. I almost want to be able to introduce you to them, to make you see—"

"What you see. I know," Jason says, and kisses Tim's forehead again. "They're *your* parents, and you love them, and that's the way it should be."

"I—*will* you tell me about your parents, Jay?"

"Yeah, I will. But not *now*," he says, and pulls out slow. "How do you want it?"

"I—could we... the edge of the bed, and you standing behind me?"

Jason grins. "Bow wow—baby bro."

Tim shivers and moans for him, looking *right* at him—and smiling.

It's good to look at, good to *feel*, and so Jason just takes a moment to smile right back before giving Tim a little push. He feels Tim's *absence* on his skin immediately, and—yeah.

Maybe he didn't *waste* time by not fucking Tim sooner—he wasn't anything *like* ready before, and it would've made things even more fucked up than they were—but it still feels that way.

Nights he could've had this, could've gone to sleep to the sound and feel of Tim's breathing—

No such thing as *enough* time for this, and probably the guardians of those other Titans had felt the same way when they decided to leave the kids alone. Maybe. And Tim's up on his hands and knees just beautifully, head down and the *picture* of ready—

Jason slicks his dick and gives Tim a little more lube around his hole, wanting this to be fast and easy and as good—

"Oh, *Jay*—"

*So* good, so *right* to slip in like this, centimeter by centimeter, inch by fucking *inch*—

"Always—God, somehow my body always *forgets*—"

"Yeah. Mine, too. Jesus, you're good around me. Tight and fucking *open* for me—except for that hot little *clench*, heh. Hold me. Hold me *tight*."

Tim gasps and does it, holding himself still, holding Jason the right way, the best way—

And his back is right there, bare and scarred only because of *him*... and the back of his mind knows more than the rest of him, because he'd never taken off his belt sheath, and now...

"*Oh*—Jay, *yes*—"

Now he's got the tip of the blade pressed to the side of Tim's throat, and it's hotter than it has *any* right to be. "Like this?"

"I. I was thinking... more the edge?"

Jason flips the knife and presses as lightly as he can, sliding the blade back and forth enough to raise a welt without cutting—

"Oh. Jay. I—I'm getting hard again. I—" Tim laughs shakily—

Jason pulls the knife *back*—

"Sorry, I. I just didn't expect that so *soon*," Tim says, and grunts when he clenches—

Safer—in all *kinds* of ways—to just start fucking with the *back* of Tim's neck—

"Or that. That's good. Too. I—I think one of us should be moving. Possibly both of us."

Jason smiles—but Tim can't see that in this position. "Oh, I'm gonna move. When I want to."

Tim groans and shakes a little, clenches *hard*—

And it feels like it *forces* the groan out of him, and he has only *just* enough time to stop himself before he slices a line into the back of Tim's neck. "Fuck, Tim. *Easy*—"

"I'm sorry, but I just don't see—you don't *need* your control—"

"I *can't* cut your neck—"

"But—"

"*Think* about it, Tim—"

"I don't *want* to—all right, no, you're right. You're... God, Jay, *filling* me, and—cut me *somewhere*, please, all that talking about it tonight—*nnh*—"

Blade to his throat again, and now Tim's clenching rhythmically, tensed hard to keep himself from shaking—

"Jay, you *want* me," Tim says, and it sounds like he's making an important discovery—no. It's more of an important *announcement*—

"Like maybe I didn't know that?"

"Everyone should know, should see—oh, God, Jay, you make me feel so *perfect*—"

"I am—mm. *Happy* to share my personal reality with you. *Any* time you want it," Jason says, and rocks in a few times, a few more—

Tim starts grunting for him, once for every push, every slick slide— "Yes. Yes, *please*—"

"Hold *still*," and Jason can't keep himself from emphasizing his point by dragging the tip in a nasty little smile around Tim's throat, Tim's *pretty* throat— "And do me a favor and think about getting yourself emancipated in a year or two."

Tim moans and *spasms* around him—

"Yeah. *My* boy." Jason traces another smile, another *half* of one before bringing the knife back around to the back of Tim's neck, flipping it to shave down a few of the already short hairs—

"Oh, *God*. Please, Jay, please fuck me, cut me, *take*—"

"What you *do* to me," and Jason cuts two short, diagonal slashes over Tim's shoulder blades, one for each—

"*Fuck*—"

And then another two *just* before Tim shudders too much for it to work *neatly*—

"*Yes*, Jay—"

"Lick the knife for me, Tim—"

And the wet sounds are too quiet for this, too *subtle* when the blood's welling like this, following gravity down Tim's sides, lingering near his ribs—Jason swipes some up and paints his lips with it, forcing himself not to lick until the fingers are in his mouth and he can *suck*—

"*Now*, Jay—"

Jason *grunts*, because that order went right through him, fucking—

"Do it *now*—"

Jason does *not* toss the knife so it buries itself in the wall. He sets it down on the bed, grabs Tim's hips—

"*Fuck* me—"

He gives it to Tim, hard and fast and just brutal enough to ease the thing thrumming for those *orders*, and the part of him which is breathing *only* because there's enough slick to make it smooth is letting the rest of him live, letting him—

He can't think through this, he can't—

It's Bruce all over again, but it also *isn't*. It's Tim, and the way *he'd* wanted it. It's the stink of blood and semen, the feel of it drying on his own abdomen and the knowledge that Tim is loving this with every breath, every grunt and *fucked*-off groan—

"*Yes*, God, yes, I've been waiting—*ah*—"

Too high, but *not* too loud, because it's Tim and he can control himself, it's Tim and his body, his blood, his *perfection* for this—

Would you give this to him, Dick? One day, I'm willing to bet you won't be able to help yourself. Little brother's just a little *different* from little *wing*. Or a lot different, better—

But I'm your brother *now*—

But Tim is so *good*, matching every thrust and tossing his head, digging his fingers in against the comforter he's *dripping* on, and no maid for *these* people would ever say a word about stains—

Fuck, *faster*, and it's not enough to hold Tim's hips for it. He gets *one* hand in Tim's hair and yanks his head back, forces him to face his own reflection in the mirror on the closet door, closed *neatly*, and there's too much of a glare for *Jason* to see anything, but—

"Oh, God. God, your face, Jay—"

"And what. About. *You*?"

Tim whimpers, sobs—clenches and gasps and *shakes*—

"*Tell* me."

"I look—like I'm going to cry. Like—I'm flushed and I keep making *faces*—"

"Love those faces. Every last *one* of them—"

"I'm. Thinking about Bruce."

*Jolt* through him, knocking him off his rhythm and making him harder, need more— "More. *More*."

"*This*. I—he's been here, Jay. He's touched me. I know. What he *smells* like—"

Jason growls and *finds* his rhythm again, makes a *new* one, and the sound of his sac slapping against Tim's own, the wet sounds of his dick in Tim's ass, the *high* note Tim's moans keep catching on—

"Bruce doing this, doing *me* like you because he knows I like it—"

"Tim, *yes*—"

"He would, I know he *would*—I. He'd ask you if he should. Do it harder."

Jason laughs breathlessly and can't do anything about the way it turns into a groan—or about the way a part of him *wants* Tim's parents to walk in on a masked man fucking *giving* it to the son they don't deserve *just* so he can let them know, once and for all, that Tim is *his*—

"J-Just don't leave me, Jay—"

"*Never*," he says, before he can fucking *think*—

Tim seizes hard, clenches tight enough to fucking *hurt*, and Jason's still trying to think of something to say, something to make it *work*—

And then Tim's *slamming* himself back against him, pushing Jason to go even *faster*, and there's nothing he can say, nothing he can do or *think*—

Sweet boy—

*Good* boy, ruthless and silent save for the grunts, staring at himself in the mirror, staring at both of them and seeing everything—

Knowing everything—

God, he has to *know* that Jason wouldn't give this up unless he had to, would fight for this, for *Tim*—

"*Love* you—"

Another seize, but Jason can't *let* him stop. Not now, not *yet*—

Both hands back on those hips and now he's moving both of them, working them like a flesh machine, still obscene but maybe beautiful, too, maybe some kind of perfect—

Right—

"God, *Tim*—"

"Love you so much, need you so much, Jay, anything, you have to know—"

"I *do*," Jason says, reaching for it, for that thing that's going to choke him, kill him, make him come— "God, I do, Tim, and it makes me need you *more*."

And Tim sobs for him, moans for him, clutches at the comforter and *shakes* for him. This is just that good for him, and even though Jason wishes it could be some other way, he *knows* that part of it *is* the fact that Tim can give this to him, surrender his *body* for Jason's needs—

"Fuck, is it *religious*?"

"*Yes*," Tim says, laughing and gasping—"*Fuck*, yes, Jay—"

"I'm not your personal *God*, kid—"

"Mmm, no. But—*hnnh*—the *sex* is," Tim says, and there's a lie in there, but maybe it's the best way to keep them both relatively sane—

*Relatively*, because his rhythm is gone again and there's nothing he can do about it, no way to keep himself from *gripping* Tim's hips, holding him still for the *pound* of his fuck—

But oh, it's Tim's fuck, too. Exactly what he wants and exactly what Jason can give—

"*Jay*, I—make me come, please make me *come*—"

Jason hears himself growl because he knows that means it's getting to be *too* much for Tim, that he needs help *relaxing* for it or just taking it—

And it's fucking hard to take a hand off Tim's hip, but he manages it, and taking hold of Tim's dick is the most natural, the best—

The *best*, because he's hard for Jason and leaking, still streaked with his own drying come— "Fucking *dirty* for me—"

And maybe that was supposed to be words, but it definitely isn't. *Noise* for him, carefully controlled volume and *noise*—

*Clench* and there's nothing left but his body and Tim's own, nothing but the moment of fear at his loss of perception and the way it gets buried under heat—

Pleasure—

God, *Tim*—

And he has just enough warning to *clamp* his jaw shut before the orgasm rocks him, making his knees buckle—

Make him almost slip *out*, and slamming back in makes them both cry out, too loud, too much, too—

And he doesn't blank out at all for this one, just twitches and shoots and grunts like the animal he is until there's nothing left but his own need for air.

Jason pants and strokes through the blood on Tim's back with his free hand while he works up the *focus* to give Tim a *good* stroke, as opposed to the fucking spastic one he's managing right now—

"Jay. Jay, please—"

"Yeah, kid, I've got you. Just—heh. That was a little *serious*," he says, laughing because he *has* to—

"I—ah. Understand. The feeling. God, Jay—"

"Right here, and if you *ever* make up a shrine to my dick..."

"Yes?"

"No black candles. They're just too fucking gay."

Tim snorts—clenches again—

"Mother*fuck* that hurts. Do it again—*nnh*—" Jason starts stroking Tim fast and serious, the short strokes he likes the best while wincing through all the flexing and *jerking*.

Tim's fucking his fist *and* fucking himself back on Jason's softening dick, and it's going to make him pass out if it lasts too long—

Tim starts making these hot little *keening* noises, though, and that's worth sticking it out for, worth a good, solid chunk of his fucked up *soul*, because damn if he doesn't want to see if he *can* go again in a little while—

"*Jay*—"

"*Right* here. Give it up for me, now—"

"Say it again, *please*..."

And there are a *few* different its to *choose* from, but— "I love you, kid. You're all through me now. Nothing—there's nothing I can *do*—"

Tim chokes, fucking gurgles like maybe he's feeling Jason's dick in his *throat*—

Tim comes with a gasp, spilling all over Jason's hand and the comforter and clenching hard enough to make Jason groan, long and low. He drops onto his elbows and pants, spasming a few more times and generally being fucking gorgeous.

Perfect for him.

Jason waits until Tim starts working on controlling his breathing—and until he's just a little softer—to pull out. He needs to get clean, but it's not like he's going to risk using Tim's bathroom here. He grabs a few tissues and wipes himself off—and sits on the bed again.

Tim smiles at him and comes close, wrapping his arms around Jason's chest and resting his head where Jason's heartbeat can thump at him a little. And—it's late.

It's *very* late. But.

Jason wraps *his* arms around Tim and holds him close, careful of the new cuts. It's silent except for their breathing, this part of the city held apart from the rest by main force and a whole lot of money. The room reeks of sex with just the slightest taint of blood beneath it all.

It's possible that Tim thinks of it as spice.

It's possible that he does, too, deep down where too much of him will always live, always need, always fucking *hunger*.

After a while, Jason shifts enough that he can grab the knife and sheath it, promising it a thorough cleaning and sharpening later. And—

And.

"I didn't say what you wanted me to say, did I?"

"No," Tim says, and presses closer still. "But you said enough."

Jason kisses the top of Tim's head and closes his eyes. He can doze here for a little while longer.


	23. Chapter 23

Riding Bruce's bike into the Cave is a lot like taking a beautiful, powerful, perfect, incredible, and also beautiful bike back to its owner. It had made the Harley look like a week-old corpse, despite all the work he and Tim had done on the thing over the past few months, and he's not at all ashamed of the fact that he has to take a moment to just sit on it after parking. Some things deserve *reverence*.

Bruce and Tim are nowhere to be seen, but it's a big Cave—

Gunshots.

Specifically, the brutally fast and relentlessly *even* gunshots of Bruce doing gun training with rubber bullets. Tim's going to look like he'd taken a *beating*—

No, that's *two* guns, and Jason's up and moving, knife out and prayers he doesn't even fucking know coiling up the back of his throat and dying there. He should have a gun of his own. He should—

Except that it *is* Bruce—and Dick. Jesus, okay, he's breathing. He sheathes his knife and watches Tim leap and move. He's randomizing pretty well, but his arm gets caught in the cape when he tosses his shuriken and Bruce doesn't even come close to losing his weapon.

Jason shakes his head and keeps watching. Tim's not moving too far in any one direction, which means they're doing the 'closed room' test, and—yeah, he's a fast little bastard even with how little sleep he would've gotten last night.

Dick is frowning and focused.

Bruce *isn't* frowning, but he's also pretty focused—and going for Tim's legs now that Dick is reloading.

"How many hits has he taken so far?"

"One," Bruce says.

"Nice." And that would explain why Tim *can* keep moving like this. Jason can't even tell *where* he'd taken the hit—

Dick finishes reloading and Tim's in the crossfire again, and yeah, he's still struggling with the cape, but it's a lot more like he's struggling *with* the cape, using it as a silent partner to change his shape, move, *distract*—

But that frown on *his* face isn't concentration. "God, he hates that thing."

"Agreed. Watch," Bruce says, slamming in a new clip and moving right in a circle as Dick moves left—

And now it's almost as though Tim's treating the floor like a hot fucking *griddle*. Non-stop motion, leap after leap—*toss*, and that was a good one, forcing Dick to lower his gun to keep from losing it—

But the toss at Bruce—using his usually perfect left arm again—is terrible. The shuriken doesn't even get the right spin because of the way the cape wraps around his arm—

And Tim growls. He doesn't stop moving, he doesn't say a *word*, but—yeah. "Okay, I get the point."

Bruce nods. "Time."

Dick lowers his weapon, Bruce lowers his own, and Tim lands on his toes—with another shuriken between his fingers. He smiles at Jason before tucking it away—

"I really think the cape needs to go," Dick says.

"We're in agreement. Jay?"

Jason sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, doing his best to ignore the *hope* in Tim's eyes. "I fucking hate to see him lose that protection."

"It's a great cape, Jay, no argument there," and Dick moves to pick it up, stroking the material and looking a little nostalgic. "But..."

"*But*, yeah," Jason says, and shakes his head. "All right, Tim, what do *you* think? Can you pick it up with a little more work?"

Tim frowns. "I—feel I *should* answer that in the affirmative. I don't know what it is that makes it so hard, other than 'it's in my way.' I don't know how to make it move the way I want it to—except when I do. I—the fact that I can't make it work is slowing down my other training. In the end, that's the most important thing," and he undoes the catches of the cape and folds the thing. "Shelve it for... now?"

Jason takes the cape and nods.

"I'm working on designs for a lighter, smaller cape that would nonetheless offer more protection than either Jason's or Dick's," Bruce says. "We'll return to the issue another time. At the moment... Jay, would you take another of the practice guns?"

Three guns for the kid to work against when all he has are shuriken and the armor in the suit. He's already training *in* the suit again, and that means—Jason raises an eyebrow at Bruce—

Bruce nods, and there's humor *and* pride in his eyes, because, yeah, even *with* the cape, Tim had only taken *one* hit—and Jason still can't tell where.

"Done," he says, and heads over to get the gun and set the cape down on one of the work tables. He, Dick, and Bruce make a triangle around Tim, who looks loose and ready to move.

It's on.

It takes almost two full minutes for Tim to take another hit—a graze to the abdomen that makes his back-flip clumsy—but doesn't affect his shuriken toss. *Both* he and Dick have to spin to avoid the things, and Tim gets his bearings again, working the small space endlessly and keeping his breathing ruthlessly even.

It makes Jason want to know how Bruce had trained *himself* for this, and how many of the scars on his body are from times when he hadn't moved the *right* way.

It makes Jason want to put the staff back in Tim's hands and let him go for all three of them the way he *can*, the way he can *feel* Tim wanting to, needing to—

Bruce grunts a split-second after Tim's latest toss, and his shots lose their rhythm for a good, solid twenty seconds—Tim had hit.

They're moving now, and Tim's pulling out all the stops, moving as fast as that little body *can* and making Jason feel like pinning him just to shout at him that he's good, he's wonderful—

And the toss nearly takes him in the eye, forcing him to spin *and* dance back—

And he knows that had distracted Dick by the—"*Ouch*, good, Tim—"

Tim grunts and *gets* spun by a more solid hit to the chest, and yeah, this is almost over. The pain is written all over Tim's face, and while he's not slower, he *is* stiffer, almost jerky as he telegraphs his next toss—

No, that was a *fake*, because he's moving on Dick with the shuriken in his hand, forcing all of them to rework their aim while Tim grapples—with Dick's *legs*.

Jason snorts and keeps trying to get a good shot in, working on the principle that far, far too many gunmen don't let the fact that they could wind up shooting their buddies stop them from trying to shoot a *vigilante*—

Dick goes down with a laugh and a *yelp*—

And Tim rolls away with the gun, aiming shots at Jason's and Bruce's legs and doing a pretty fair job—

"*Time*," Bruce says, *not* in time to save Tim from the forearm chop from Dick that sends the gun skittering away over the floor.

Tim *and* Dick scramble to their feet, and Jason would really like to know how Dick feels about his obviously instinctive response to that tone—

"Tim. That was *unacceptable*."

\-- but he can wait for that. He crosses his arms over his chest and waits to see how Tim will handle *this* one.

"I was out of shuriken and thus about to be 'killed,'" Tim says, solid and sure.

"Teach *me* not to take the kid seriously," Dick mutters, sucking at what seems to be a puncture wound on his gun hand.

"Heh. *First* time I sparred with him? Nearly kneecapped me with a pipe I'd made the mistake of leaving where he could get it."

"A *pipe*?!"

"*Quiet*," Bruce says, and yeah, there's a little anger in his voice, but—

"The kid has a point, B. We put him in an impossible situation—"

"The first rule," Tim says, and he's obviously trying to find a position to stand in which won't cause more pain than he's already in— "is to stay alive."

"We don't. Use. *Guns*," and Bruce is bringing the *full* force of all that Batrage to bear—

But Tim only stands straighter. "Then tell me what I was supposed to do, and I will endeavor to do it in the future. I won't always have a partner, and, as this exercise showed, I won't always have access to my more *acceptable* weaponry. I wasn't shooting to kill, and, as near as I could tell, the only real mistake I made was not ensuring that Dick was downed effectively."

Dick crosses his own arms and raises his eyebrows, looking like he wants to whistle or maybe clear his throat and rocking on his heels, instead.

"Guns are the tools of—" Bruce cuts himself off, sucks in a breath—turns and walks away.

Shit.

This time, Dick *does* whistle. "Kid—little brother," he says, and rests a hand on Tim's shoulder. "The point of that exercise *was* for you to go down—after dodging and moving as much as you could."

Tim frowns. "I'm sorry, but I don't see the point of that, Dick."

Dick looks at *him*—

Jason nods. "It's designed to give you a healthy fear of gunmen, Tim, and to keep you from leaping into a room full of 'em unless you don't have any choice in the matter."

"But I already *knew* that. *Both* you and Bruce have quizzed me on that sort of thing multiple times—I. Please tell me why he's angry with me."

Jason looks at *Dick*—

"Hey, *I* didn't train him to do that, Jay—"

"I didn't, *either*—I." Jason signs and crouches in front of Tim. "He really, really doesn't like guns. Yes, we have to learn how to use them, and learn a good chunk of information about all the popular models out there, but—he doesn't like guns. It's almost a superstition with him, kid—*mainly* because the first thing he sees when he closes his eyes to sleep, most nights, is the bore of the .38 that offed his parents."

Tim rears back a little, blinks— "I should've known that—"

"Maybe," Dick says, and squeezes Tim's shoulder. "But you also haven't been sleeping here at night, and have probably never had Alfred explain to you what all the screaming from Bruce's bedroom was about."

Tim winces hard. "He told me—he did tell me about his nightmares. He. I should apologize—"

Jason stops him with a—careful—hand on his chest. "Not unless you won't do *just* that if you're ever in a situation like that on the street."

"There—must be another way. Something I didn't think of."

Dick sighs. "The 'other way' is pretty much always whatever you're packing in your belt, Tim. And—I think it's fair to say that Bruce had an idea something like this would happen if he took that belt away from you."

Knowing Bruce... yeah. Jason nods—

"Then—I'm back to being very confused. I—help?"

"Let us talk to him," Dick says, and squeezes Tim's shoulder again. "It'll be all right."

Jason nods and stands, stroking Tim's hair. "Strip off and wait for us to come back and deal with those bruises a little."

"All right," Tim says, and heads over toward the med area.

Jason watches Tim go, but he can feel Dick's eyes on him. "I really didn't teach him that. He's just that *good*."

"And maybe a little scary. I—that wasn't what I was wondering."

Jason raises his eyebrows at Dick.

"I spent a good long while today catching up with Alfred. When I *did* come down to the Cave—"

"You spent the night?"

Dick smiles ruefully. "In my old room—excuse me, I think I meant 'in the shrine to my lost youth.' I... Bruce and I talked for a really long time, and I think it helped. I *know* it helped, and—thank you."

"I didn't do anything—"

"You *existed* for both of us, and that combined with everything you said last night—you helped. Just—deal with that, okay?"

Jason nods. "All right, so what did you see when you came down to the Cave?" And he *knows*, but—he has to see how Dick is going to phrase it. And deal with it.

"I..." Dick shakes his head and tugs on his own ponytail, and somehow, with him just dressed in workout clothes against the backdrop of the Cave...

He looks alien, or—it's possible that Jason means threatening. Except that he's not Robin, anymore, and there's no way that Dick can take the place he's made his own. For whatever—and everything—that means. "Dick..."

"Tim was shirtless on the gurney. All that was happening was Bruce bandaging a couple of new cuts on Tim's back—and that was really *enough* for my brain right there—"

"Dick, we explained that—"

"I know that. I *know* that, and I'm going to go with the idea that I still have the right to freak about it, you pervert, but... Jay. There was something *off*."

Off. Jason closes his eyes for a moment. "About the *way* Bruce was bandaging Tim."

"I—yes. There was no one thing I can put my finger on, unless it was something about the *quality* of blankness in Bruce's eyes... does he. Are they...?"

He could just say no. It would even be *most* of the truth. But—he owes Dick more than that. "Not yet."

"God, I leave you guys alone for a *minute*," Dick says, but the humor is only on the surface. *Beneath* the surface are a lot of other things, starting with the fact that Jason has always had something Dick had bent over backwards and done everything in his power just to *try* to get—

Jason squeezes Dick's arm. "Are you okay?"

"Is *he*? Tim, I mean. I can't imagine—you were really fucked up about it, weren't you? When you and Bruce first started making love?"

Jason nods. "I—to be honest, Dick, I never *stopped* being fucked up about it the whole time I was Robin. I'm *still* fucked up about it—even though I'm in love with him—"

Hug, and probably he should've seen it coming, but it's just *there*, and Jason hugs Dick back—

"He's just really not all that *good* at picking—"

"Shut up," Dick says, and kisses Jason's cheek hard. "He's *very* good at *picking* people. He's just no good at all at keeping them."

God, *Dick*—Jason hugs him a little tighter before pushing off. "Let's go talk him off the ledge, Big Bird."

"Yeah, before Tim develops any more complexes than he already *has*. I—his parents really weren't there for him at all, were they?"

"Not that I could see. But—well, we don't know. Tim hasn't talked about it, and I don't see him starting to anytime soon."

"We have to make him do it," Dick says, and they start walking. "That kind of thing could mess up *every* relationship in the kid's life."

"No argument." Even though it was *exactly* that quality of fuck-up that had let him *have* Tim as much as he does—*because* it was.

"He really *likes* the cutting? Does he ever—he doesn't do it to *himself*, does he—"

"Not even a little. We'd *notice*, Dick."

"Yeah, you really would. I—damn. That really is—"

"Out there, yeah. The way he asked for it—*demanded* it—last night..."

Dick raises his hands. "Okay, okay, I hear you. I'm intimidated *and* freaked, but I hear you. And... damn. Good sign or not that all he's doing is filling up the bike you took?"

Jason thinks about it, looking Bruce over. He's pretty fucking *rigid*, but— "He's there for us to find as opposed to lurking in some unfinished part of the Cave. I vote good sign."

"Yeah, I guess I do, too," Dick says, and they stop near the nose of the bike, giving Bruce time to finish topping off the tank, close it up, wipe it off with a rag, and walk over to set the can down with the ones which need to be filled again.

Bruce is doing that thing where he's keeping his face shadowed through sheer force of *will*, but—he's not trying to chase them off.

Dick sighs. "Bruce, his shuriken *and* batarang work is just that good. He won't *be* in a situation like that short of serious disaster."

Bruce curls his hands into fists. "He could easily kill someone—"

"With his *staff*," Jason says. "And that I *did* show him how to do."

Bruce looks up, but the anger isn't there. He looks *bleak*—"We both know how he responds to dangerous opponents, Jay."

"Yeah, we do," Jason says. "And we've both taught him all kinds of ways to avoid using the more dangerous moves—and how to *survive* out there."

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, and the tension in his jaw makes Jason's own face want to ache.

"Bruce..." Dick's voice is low and gentle. "He's not *either* of us. I think it's probably a *good* thing that he'll always look for a way out of even the impossible situations. I mean, it's *definitely* a good thing—"

"He picked up a gun," Bruce says, quiet and still bleak—but not hard.

"He shot to *wound*, B—"

"Will he always? When he's faced with a killer? When one of his allies is hurt, as well?"

Dick turns to look toward the medical area with a frown. "I can't answer that question, yet. Jay?"

"He will."

"Jay—"

"He *will*, Bruce. You've seen his control. What you *haven't* seen is the way he's argued against *my* point of view. He's *not* comfortable with the idea of taking a life. No matter what."

"Comfort." Bruce shakes his head and hums. "It should be a great deal more than *comfort*."

"I agree," Dick says, turning back and crossing his arms over his chest—hugging himself. "But I still don't know how I'm going to react to the Joker *when* he gets out again."

Bruce sucks in a sharp breath, and—

Jason blinks. "Dick...?"

"I've done a fairly good job of keeping my urges toward revenge down over the years as well as guiding my *team* away from that kind of thing, but. We're all human. If Jay says Tim has the control to keep himself in check, then I say we listen to him—because I know that's all we *can* ask, or know."

Jason swallows and tries not to—

He thinks about it. The things Joker would do, the things he would *say* to Dick, because it's possible—*probable*—that none of their other opponents know as well as Joker does that the guy calling himself Nightwing *used* to be the first Robin.

And Dick has never been the kind of hard that would *let* him let things like that stand. Neither is he. But Tim... "He always, *always* thinks first. His instincts and reflexes are fast, but his brain is faster—"

"Which means that he'd planned to at least try to take one of the guns long before he ran out of shuriken," Bruce says, and—

"*Bruce*. Are you seriously saying you'd rather he'd done that *instinctively*? You can't have it both ways—"

"Really not," Dick says, stepping close to Bruce and resting a hand on his shoulder. "What do you *really* need, Bruce?"

Bruce's smile is brief and more than a little pained—but he covers the hand Dick has on his shoulder with one of his own. "I suppose what I truly need... I. I was *going* to say that what I needed was for Tim to show me something familiar, but the truth is that he does, every day, in his own ways." Bruce pats Dick's hand and walks away from it, back toward the working areas of the Cave—and Tim.

Dick looks a question at him, and Jason has to shrug. He'd thought that would be *harder*—

He could ask. "Bruce—"

"I set him up to fail, in part to see, once and for all, how he'd respond to that," Bruce says, and keeps walking. "But he is Robin, and Robin never fails, at all."

That— "Are you saying I *wasn't* Robin—"

"No, Jay, I—" Bruce stops and *grips* Jason's shoulder. "I know you fought to the very end. In your hand, I found wires from the bomb Joker had set, fused with your flesh..." The grip gets stronger. "I can only follow the example you—both of you—have set for me. I will not fail you, and I will not fail Tim."

Jesus. Maybe family means that it always has to hurt just like this, always has to *fill* you with things you can't name and can't do more with than *feel*. Jason nods, giving Bruce a push toward Tim and giving himself leave to just stand there and hopefully, eventually deal.

And it's not really a surprise when Dick moves up next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

"I'm not about to punk out, Dick—"

"Heaven forbid you do *anything* of the kind, of course." Dick sighs. "Stop being taller than I am."

"No."

"Bastard. Tim totally *picked* me for the attack, didn't he. It wasn't convenience."

"Oh, yeah. You're the only one who doesn't know what he can *do*."

Dick nods. "And you knew from your own world."

"And one of the other worlds I checked out through the anomalies. He's got the potential to do at least some of your signature moves."

"I *saw* that. But maybe that Tim was raised by other people... I have to train him, Jay."

"Yep."

"You *knew* I'd have to train him."

"That, too."

"What the hell am I supposed to tell my *team*?"

Jason grins and starts walking again, dragging Dick along with him. "You could tell 'em that Bruce picked up a *sweet* little piece of ass and you decided you needed a taste."

"Yes, but then there's no *way* I'd be able to keep Kory away," Dick says, elbowing Jason when he snorts. "And I hope you *choke* on those images, because Lord knows, *I'm* going to."

Jason snickers. "I'm *pretty* sure Tim doesn't swing that way—but I have no *idea* how that works, because in *my* world he had a hot little girlfriend."

"Ooh, yeah? Anyone I know?"

"Nope. For all I know, she won't *be* a cape in this universe. I don't know, Big Bird. It's a little frightening to make decisions based on what I know 'should' happen when everything seems to be spiraling out of control."

"Jay... I never thought Bruce and I *would* be able to have a conversation like the one we had last night. At the very least, a lot more time would've had to pass."

"Dick—"

"I'm just saying—as spirals go? It seems like we're *all* on a pretty good one, right now. I think you should just go with it as much as possible. We all have enough things to worry about without you playing chicken with the multiverse."

Is that what he's doing—no, that's exactly what he's doing. Right. Jason scrubs a hand back through his hair—time to get it cut again—and takes a deep breath. "All right."

Dick claps him on the shoulder. "Good ex-Robin. Hey, we should start a club."

"Embittered and moderately insane ex-sidekicks?"

"Roy will bring the... well, I'm going to hope it will *just* be beer," Dick says, and they're laughing in that kind of helpless and *pained* way when they get to the medical area, where Bruce is painstakingly massaging at the spectacular bruises Tim's going to have on his chest, abdomen, and—upper thigh.

Ouch. Jason covers the bruise on Tim's thigh with his hand just to give it a little warmth, but Tim's in his pain management zone. It's something all of them have for these little moments of maintenance, a way of slipping away into something like meditation while Bruce is as careful and measured as he can be with his touches.

By rights, he and Dick should leave Bruce and Tim to it—

And the look on Dick's face says he knows that perfectly well. Some things really are just for Batman and Robin.

He spends a good hour on the weights with Dick—after sucking it up and changing into the workout clothes in his size that had just appeared down here one day—and then another hour watching Dick on the gymnastics equipment offering opinions on what he should teach Tim when. And also just *watching* Dick, because damn.

Dick *does* use the show-stoppers out on the street when it's necessary—and, Jason knows, sometimes when he can't stop himself—but he still has to save most of the best stuff for when he's in a gym either alone or surrounded by allies. People who are allowed to *know* what he can do.

It's possible that no one *loves* training the way Dick does, and—

Perfect landing—complete with a flourish because Dick *does* have an audience. But—

"Do you ever think about it, Dick? What your life would've been like—"

"If I could've somehow stayed with Haly's? Or if I'd maybe run away to join another circus?"

Jason smiles ruefully. "I guess that was a pretty obvious question."

Dick gives him a *wry* smile in return and starts unwrapping the tape from his hands and wrists. "You're not the first person to ask, and you won't be the last. The stock answer: I never could've given up saving the world on a nightly basis."

Jason crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. "And the real answer?"

"I never could've given up saving the world on a nightly basis. And I think about it at least once every day. The people I would've become close to and maybe loved, the smell of the animals, the looks I'd see in the other kids' eyes—heh. In the *kids'* eyes, I mean, because yes, I *do* know I'm not thirteen, anymore. Most of the time."

"Dick."

"Yeah, I know. But we all gave up *something* for this. If I waste time thinking that I'm some unique and special flower just because *I* gave up something I loved, I'd be spitting in the faces of all the good people I've worked with—and played with, and loved—over the years. And? I still *do* get to play for a crowd, sometimes," Dick says, and his gesture takes in the whole of the Cave.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you made some of the bats cry with that last split. I know you brought tears to *my* eyes."

"Asshole," Dick says, comfortably fond. "What about you? You spent three years out of the game—which definitely isn't a game, of course, *ever*—"

Jason snorts. "I trained, and then trained some more, and had a lot of nightmares of failing, hurting, dying—and then I trained some *more*. When I thought about trying to live some kind of normal, civilian life it all just fell apart in my head. When I finally rode back into Gotham, I couldn't breathe or think with how *good* it felt, and... yeah. I'll be doing this until they put me in the ground again—and hopefully it won't be all that deep the second time around. Just in *case*."

Dick laughs and winces, clapping Jason on the shoulder. "*Try* to avoid having it happen too soon, please."

"Maybe Alfred will serve me up some mud pies. Just, you know, when I start missing the *taste*."

"*Extra* worms, just for you—oh, God, I think I'm going to hurl."

Jason snickers again. "Pussy."

"Pussy who *gets*—to see a great deal more of the beautiful female form than *some* ex-Robins I can mention."

"Eh. We both know it's only a matter of time before Tim gets shaved, powdered, perfumed, and shoved into a dress. I can be patient—" Movement—

Which resolves into Tim giving him a *pissy* look.

"Aw, what'd I say, baby bro?"

And the pissy look wobbles a bit—a bit more—firms *right* up again. "*You* made a point of making me *fear* potential future adventures in drag."

"As well you *should*, Tim," and Dick ruffles Tim's hair.

"Doesn't mean it won't still be *hot*," Jason says, and offers his *most* obnoxious smile.

Tim narrows his eyes. "I would like to state for the record that I almost certainly won't be in *any* mood to put out if *anyone* wants me to do it in heels."

Dick looks thoughtful— "It *was* sometimes nice to be taller. And you have very shapely legs."

Shapely—Jason waggles his eyebrows. "And a little lipstick goes a *long* way. In terms of—heh—*indirect* application."

"This is hazing, isn't it? I suppose I should get used to it."

"Oh, little brother. We haven't *begun* to haze you," Dick says, and starts *playing* with Tim's hair.

"We really, really haven't. And—" Jason looks up, and Bruce is at the console. "Hey, B, is the makeup kit—"

"Precisely where it always has been," Bruce says, without so much as turning *around*—

But *all* of them had heard the smile in that voice.

Dick grins.

Jason grins right back—

And really, if you're *going* to run away from someone, it's a *good* idea to try to get one last lick in—if only to slow the guy down, some. And Jason tells Tim that as he throws him over his shoulder.

Dick gets a lock on Tim's legs to keep the kicking to a minimum, and there are only so many strikes and punches Tim can use against him in this position. It's probably the definition of love that he's only using the ones which could—if aimed a little better—do no more than paralyze Jason for a while.

Jason veers them toward the work table with the extra zip strips, and then it's time for the Chair, which only gets the capital letter for the dread it has instilled in Robins for nine damned years. It's an actual *stylist's* chair—and Jason would really like to know how Bruce had explained *that* purchase—but there are still plenty of places to tie Tim down—hmm. "Head issue."

Dick eyes Tim a little bit. "He's not struggling."

"I *could* be," Tim says, glaring at both of them.

"Mm, it's true. But! I have an idea," Dick says, and rummages in the disguise closet until he comes out with a brightly floral silk scarf.

"Heh. Good deal," Jason says, and holds Tim's head back against the rest so Dick can tie the scarf around—and around—his forehead. Tim's not going *anywhere*.

"I'm quickly learning to hate you both."

"But, Tim, honey, sweetheart—ah. Your beauty inspires?"

Jason snickers. "It's true. Why, I'm getting *inspired* right now."

Tim narrows his eyes. "I could say something here about your attraction to underaged boys and bondage, Jay."

"But you *won't*, because it's workin' out pretty damned well for *you*, kid," Jason says, and chucks Tim's chin.

"Bondage? Seriously?"

Jason holds his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "Hey, you saw those bedposts."

"Yes, and now I'll be seeing them in my *dreams*," Dick says, and waggles a finger at them both. "Oh, hm."

"Hm?"

"We can't get the foundation on with Tim in that delightfully spring-like little headband—"

"Whoops, too bad, guess you'll have to *let me go*," Tim says, eyes tracking fast.

Dick pokes Tim's nose. "Not a chance, trainee. Your complexion is good enough to go without."

Jason grabs the make-up kit and sets it on the table. "Yeah, baby bro—just try not to get too pissy. It'll make you get all blotchy—"

"And we *can't* have that," and Dick pulls out one of the eyeliner pencils. "Now hold still. I made Bruce start using the cruelty-free makeup after one mind-blowing weekend with Clark or another, but it can still sting like a *bear*."

"Bears don't *sting*, Dick, and I—eyeliner? Really?"

"*Only* the beginning, darling. Close those baby blues."

"I—"

"Don't you think they're really more *icy*, Big Bird?"

Dick raises an eyebrow. "I usually save that descriptor for *Bruce*, but... I can see it. Especially right now. Close 'em! Soonest begun is soonest done."

"Hate. Honest, pure hate," Tim says, and closes his eyes.

Dick gets the liner on in four perfectly even strokes, which—yeah, he's really done this a *lot*, but. "Hey, *have* you done this to the other Titans?"

"Once to Roy, three times to Wally—he's *really* good at annoying Donna and sleeps surprisingly deeply—twice to Garth because he felt left out—"

Jason snorts. "I bet he looked pretty damned good, though."

"God, yes. I may—*may*—have had a moment."

Tim growls. "Is *that* what the Titans are calling it these days?"

Dick pauses in his perfectionism.

Jason pauses in his rummage through the make-up kit.

"I'm *trying* to play along," Tim says, and—

"That was a huff. Jay, you didn't tell me he huffed."

"I didn't *know* he huffed." Jason pokes Tim's cheek. "Do it again."

"No."

Dick gives him the big eyes. "Please?"

"Hate. I'm back to the hate."

Jason smiles and kisses Tim's forehead—through the scarf. "You're going to be *so* pretty."

Tim growls—

"That reminds me. Beast Boy?"

Dick takes the eye shadow Jason had picked and looks it over, checking Tim's complexion and nodding his approval. "You're kind of scarily good at this, little wing. And it took me a year and a half, but yes, I finally found good colors for Gar."

"You're kind of scarily *focused*, Dick, but—heh. I used to help my mom—my *real* mom—with her makeup. And maybe also sometimes her friends."

"Awww—"

"Shut up and paint my boy."

"No, I'm gonna go with 'awww' for a little while. I can just *see* you with the little brushes and the lipstick and—"

"I will cut Tim free and we'll put *you* in the chair, Dick."

"That's a thought," Tim says, looking hopeful. "I need to learn how to do this myself, after all."

"You'll be taught," *Bruce* says. Or it's possible that Jason means 'threatens.'

Jason looks back over his shoulder, and yeah, Bruce is there, smiling at Tim like the predator he *is*.

Dick holds up the eye shadow. "What do you think, boss?"

"It should flatter him immensely."

Tim sighs. "I'm trying to tell myself that this is better than, say, standing me up over a keg or spanking me with a well-worn paddle—"

"We've only ever done that to Roy, and he liked it too much," Dick says, and pokes Tim's nose again. "Eyes *closed*, beautiful."

Yeah, that was definitely a huff, but he closes his eyes and lets Dick apply the eye shadow. Definitely his color. Jason rummages around for the right blush, noting that there are *way* too many which would've been good for *his* complexion— "Thank *fuck* I filled out as fast as I did."

Bruce makes a non-committal noise.

"You realize that you *owe* the multiverse for that, don't you, little wing?"

"Oh, I'm willing to pay. So long as no one wants to see *me* in a dress anymore? I'm a happy, happy man."

Bruce hums. "I wouldn't say—"

"Okay, B, *stop*. Just—stop right there."

"No, let him talk," Tim says. "This is *interesting* to me at the moment."

"I'll make sure you see *all* the footage, Tim."

"Aw, Jesus, Bruce, you *saved* that?" Jason picks the blush and hands it to Dick. And—hunh. "Wait, does that mean there's footage of *Dick*?"

"Oh," Bruce says, and smiles again. "Hours of it."

"Oh, yes," Dick says, and applies it. "Hours of me begging, pleading, stumbling on the heels, trying and failing to avoid cursing—"

"Pulling faces behind my back..."

"Lots and *lots* of those. Hm. It looked good in the case, but... you guys don't think it's too dark?"

Jason gives it a good look... heh. "It *looks* like he's blushing. Only *artistically*."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "My blushes weren't good enough for you?"

"Your blushes—uh. Inflame my passions?"

Bruce hums again—

Tim *narrows* his eyes—

"Oh, don't do that, little brother, you're getting all scrunched up."

"Scrunched. You—you just said *you* were making faces—"

"Yes, but that's *me*—"

"And me," Jason says, and winds a lock of Tim's hair around his finger. "Lipstick or lip *gloss*?"

"I—" That was *almost* a huff, but Tim managed to cut it off. "All right, what's the difference?"

Jason holds up the small tin of cinnamon-flavored lip gloss. "Well, your typical lip gloss—like this stuff here which *I* had to wear and which I hope to God Bruce went in the store and bought *himself*—"

"Alfred is very, very tolerant."

"*Dammit*. Anyway. Gloss is for your younger girl. It adds to the *innocence* of the wearer, highlights the natural shade of the lips in question, and also makes you look like you'll suck cock for a Gap gift card."

Dick makes a choked noise, and Jason can *feel* Bruce looking at him.

"Well, it *does*."

"I don't know, little wing. I don't think lip gloss would work with the rest of the look we have going here."

"And I'm worth more than a Gap gift card," Tim says, and the look on his—pretty, pretty—face is all about *daring* someone to say *something*—

"Are you."

God bless you, Bruce, you giant fucking pervert. "Heh. *Tell* him, Tim."

"Maybe *you* should, Jay—"

"Oh, no," Dick says, "I think that's on you, little brother."

"I—fine. I've devoted a great deal of time and energy—and any number of sore throats—to the art of providing pleasurable fellatio—"

"*Anyone* can make getting your dick sucked *pleasurable*, baby bro. Have a little pride."

"All *right*. I'm good at it. At times I think I achieve a measure of excellence, especially given the fact that Jason seems to prefer the more active sort of fellatio experience—"

"Meaning he's a rude, rude boy and likes to fuck your throat." Dick sucks his teeth. "You should be nicer to the lady, Jay."

"*Ladies* don't make noises like that—"

"I don't make very much noise, at all, when your sac is on my *chin*—*mmph*—"

And yeah, Dick's hand is *clamped* over Tim's mouth.

"Hit a wall there, Big Bird?"

Dick is staring at absolutely nothing, and he's staring at it *hard*.

"*Mmph*."

Dick shakes his head like a dog. "Yeah, that was a definitely a wall. A big wall. Possibly a *great* wall. Wow. Uh. Bruce?"

"Yes, they've spoken that way in front of me in the past," Bruce says, and... shifts.

Tim sounds like he has a *lot* to say about that, possibly including things about sight-lines and the deep shadows in the corners of his bedroom. Oh... yeah. That. Jason shakes his head *minutely*—

Tim raises an eyebrow *extremely* pointedly—

Dick breaks and laughs, full-throated and *just* a little hysterical, and when Jason looks, Bruce is giving Dick a fondly narrow smile that, in some ways, really does say it all.

Jason waits until Dick's winding down. "So what it all boils down to? Is that Tim is an *excellent* cocksucker."

Dick wipes tears from the corners of his eyes. "Okay then, but I *still* think the gloss would just be too shiny. I want Tim to at least *look* old enough to have a mouth like that—so to speak."

"Lipstick it is, then," Jason says, and picks a shade to complement the blush and shadow. "Hey, let Bruce put it on. He hasn't had a chance to do this in a while."

"Into every Robin's life, a little Bruce-insanity must fall. *Usually* right on your head, little brother, and—is it safe to move my hand, yet?"

Tim narrows his eyes—

Dick *yelps* and yanks his hand back.

"Did he bite you?" Bruce sounds *extremely* interested.

"He *licked* me. Slowly. Some might even say *sensuously*," Dick says, and shakes his finger at Tim. "*Bad* trainee. Now you *do* have to wear the dress."

"You'll have to *untie* me to get it on, and I have no compunctions against tearing expensive fabric."

Jason smiles very, very widely. "Sounds like someone wants a sedative."

Bruce—coughs.

Dick stares at him like he's crazy.

"What? I was the only one who got the damned sedative? What the fuck, Bruce?"

"You *sedated* him? To get him in a *dress*?"

"Technically," Bruce says, "he was already in the dress."

"I would just like to state—again, for the record—that I don't think we have to start a new tradition," Tim says, looking back and forth *rapidly*—

"Wait, if he was already wearing the dress—"

"The disguise required him to have smooth legs and underarms," Bruce says, and sounds just a *little* bit defensive, but really—

"I can't believe I was the only one who got sedated!"

Dick turns that shocked look on *him*. "Wait, you wouldn't *shave*?"

Oh, what the fuck. "Dick, look, I *know* you liked rocking the smooth and sleek look, but I have a close, personal relationship with each and every single one of my hairs."

"Yes. Only the ones that want a divorce come out when I'm pulling his hair," Tim says—

"And you—I think Bruce has to sedate you."

Tim struggles a little— "He does *not*!"

Jason grins. "Well, are you going to get in the dress like a good boy or aren't you?"

"You're seriously going to drug me and put me in a dress if I don't put the dress on voluntarily."

Well, when you put it like *that*—

"Tradition often means so very little to the young," Bruce says, in that quiet way which means he's laughing himself *sick* on the inside—

"I just don't see how the sedation helped him to—oh. Bruce, *you* shaved Jay? That's. That's really *dirty*," Dick says, blinking a lot and very, very clearly picturing it.

"I suppose he could've had Alfred do it... and now you're all staring at me like *I'm* the crazy person in the Cave," Tim says, and growls again. "Fine. I'll wear the dress. But *I* get to pick which one."

"Good boy," Jason says, and gives Tim the double curl as much as is possible with his hair. "I reserve the right to have Bruce sedate you some other time, though."

Tim sighs gustily. "Also fine. But if I wake up shaved for *any* non-Mission-related purpose, I'm doing something mean the very next time you let my teeth *anywhere* near your sac."

That *probably* shouldn't make his dick perk up and say hello to his backbrain, but Jason is willing to go with the idea that it was going to happen sooner or later, *anyway*.

And Dick still looks a little dazed, but he hands the lipstick to Bruce without a word.

"Thank you," Bruce says, and moves close, resting one hand on the back of the chair and generally looming over Tim *dramatically*.

Dick shifts right to get a better view, Jason shifts left—just in time to see Tim swallow. Heh.

"I suppose I don't... purse my lips. Or anything like that."

"Relax," Bruce says, and thumbs off the cap so that it falls in Tim's lap. "As much as you can."

"Um." Tim swallows again, presses his lips together—and then takes a breath and relaxes his mouth, leaving his lips just *slightly* parted, and yeah, Jason's dick is taking notice *big* time.

He glances over at Dick—still dazed, but dazed and *attentive* now, which... is as it should be.

Jason licks his teeth, says a mental fuck it, and crosses his arms over his chest, bringing his thumb up to his mouth so he can nibble on it a little—

"That's *my* nervous habit."

"It's workin' for me right now, Big Bird."

Bruce hums softly, pressing the tip of the lipstick to what may very well be the *exact* center of Tim's lower lip and *holding* it there.

And the breath Tim takes is seriously *shaky*—

"Jesus," Dick says, and blinks a little *more*. "I mean. Um. Don't mind me?"

"Don't worry, I'm not lookin' at *you* right now."

And then Bruce starts dragging the lipstick. *Slowly*. Tim's eyes are as wide as he's ever seen them—they *seem* even wider than that—and he's focused on *Bruce's* eyes.

Jason doesn't know if he wants to see what's in them or *not*—no, he does want to see, and feel—

Fucking *taste*—

And it feels like it takes an *hour* for Bruce to get Tim's lower lip painted, but it's a *good* hour, like the slowest, sweetest stroke any dick's ever had, like—

"Do this, Tim," Bruce says, and rolls his lips in against each other and presses them together before rolling them back out again in a kiss Jason bets Tim can feel *everywhere*.

*Especially* his ass—

"Holy... I." Dick shakes his head. "Possibly I should do... something."

"I vote: enjoy the show."

Dick's laugh is breathy and a little high. "Jay—oh."

Tim's rolling his lips together and searching Bruce's face—

Swallowing—

*Flushing*, and it should look a little silly with the makeup, but it just seems to blend where it doesn't *enhance*, and there's a real possibility that he's a little gone for the kid.

A little. Nothing serious.

Jason fights back a snort—he *doesn't* want to break the moment—and watches Bruce smile at Tim *softly*. It's the kind of look that always made him need to fucking *fight*, even if it was only himself, but, if anything, it makes Tim's eyes get wider.

"Open for me?"

Tim shivers and does it, and—yes, they're *going* to put Tim in the dress, but that's really, *really* not going to last very long. At all. The only *real* question is Dick.

Jason decides to give up watching Bruce putting the finishing touches on Tim's lipstick to check Dick out... and Dick is staring pretty damned hard. *And* doing that thing he'd done *that* night, running the fingertips of one hand up and down lightly on his abdomen and definitely thinking about touch.

Yeah. Jason closes the distance between them and covers Dick's hand with his own, making Dick press a little harder. Dick licks his lips, looks down at their hands, and then looks at Jason.

Jason raises his eyebrows.

"Jay. This. Really. Got out of hand. I'm not sure—"

"It's gonna get worse. And by worse? I mean better."

"I—"

"*Oh*—God."

They both turn to look at Bruce and Tim—but Bruce is just putting the cap back on the tube of lipstick, and there's no real *reason* for Tim to have reacted that way—

But then Jason remembers that the cap had been in Tim's *lap*, and—yeah. Big, big hands. Big, hard, deft, perfect, *deadly* hands. Jason grins and pushes his fingers between Dick's own. Dick's squeeze *feels* reflexive, but he doesn't pull away.

"Jay," Dick says, low and serious, and it's impossible not to turn back to him, and—God. It's written *all* over his face. Everything Jason thinks is on his own, right now, and a few things that are just Dick. Things like worry and shock, and something Jason doesn't want to call shame, but—

"Dick. It's seriously okay. I mean—I know that it seems like it can't be, but it's like you said: We're all human."

"No better than that," Bruce says, sighing softly. "But also no worse."

And Bruce is shifting in Jason's peripheral vision, doing *something*, but Dick's focus is all on him, right now, all...

God, there's something in his eyes that looks seriously *young*, and Jason remembers seeing it when he was Robin and wondering what the hell they were all doing, how any life as insane as the one they all had could possibly work, how it could be *allowed* to work—

Jason shakes his head and squeezes Dick's hand, shifting his grip until he's just holding on to the back of it before tugging it down, slow enough that Dick could stop it at any time, *pressing* enough that Dick's feeling himself up a little—

God, he wants that to be *his* palm, but—maybe not yet. Maybe? *He* doesn't know. He *never* knows—

And Tim makes another soft sound—oh. *That's* the sound of zip-strips being sliced clean through—

Dick's still looking at *only* him, and then—

Then he's making Dick cup himself through his shorts, wrapping his hand around to make Dick *squeeze*—

And watching Dick's eyes slip *most* of the way closed. Jesus. Jason licks his lips—

"Jay." Dick's voice is so fucking *heavy*—

Just the way it should be. "Yeah. Neither of us are kids anymore, you know. Just—heh. Puttin' that out there."

Dick licks his lips. "You—want. This."

"I want *you*. Always have—you know that."

"What—" Dick blinks and turns—back toward the disguise closet, where Bruce and Tim are *perusing*, and—hunh.

"What are those dresses at the end there?"

Dick frowns. "They aren't yours?"

Oh... "Fuckin' A, Bruce, you *already* bought Tim dresses? I thought we'd just use one of *Dick's*."

Bruce hums and cups Tim's shoulders. "It always pays to be... prepared."

Jason snickers and turns back to Dick, meaning to *share* this little moment of 'what the *fuck*, Bruce,' but Dick looks just a little more shocky than he had a moment ago. "Hey..."

"Jay—I. I really don't think I should be here right now. This is—yours. Not mine."

No. Jason squeezes Dick's hand just a little *harder*, pushing his fingers between Dick's own again, and—heat. *Lots* of heat. "That's the thing, Big Bird. I *never* thought that little equation worked out."

Dick's laugh is shaky— "How good were you at *math*?"

"Heh. *Very*," and Jason starts a rhythmic squeeze—

"Jesus. Jay. Jay, we really can't—"

"I think we can—"

"I have a *girlfriend*," Dick says, and it sounds like he *wanted* that to be hard and sure, but.

Jason shakes his head and keeps working Dick's dick, making *Dick* work it— "You have a family, too."

"Family, I—" Dick laughs again. "I—I'm back to *Jesus*, Jay. A week ago—two *days* ago—my family was in New *York*."

And that... he doesn't have to see Bruce to know that he's wincing for that. Hell, *he's* wincing for it—

"Let go, Jay—"

"Dick—"

"*Jay*, let me—I don't know how to *deal* with this," Dick says, and the plea in his eyes is making Jason think of Tim, of Bruce—

And yeah. He's thinking of himself, too. "I've never been big on *words*, Dick. Just—we *couldn't* have had this back then, and I know that. But we're all about as close to being adults now as we're *ever* likely to get, and—"

"Tim. Tim is *not* an adult—"

"Getting there," Tim says. "Rapidly, even. Um. Not that I wanted to interrupt or... anything like that. You just keep talking."

Dick chokes on a *much* better laugh and Jason grins. "He's not like us—except for the ways in which he really, really is."

"Jay... we both know I want this—"

"Then *take* it, Dick. Fuck, kiss me the way you did that night. You—I only laughed because I couldn't *believe* it back then, couldn't take anything like that from *anyone*. *I* made it a joke, and I never stopped hating myself for it—"

"*No*, Jay, not. You were young, and all—you were all messed up in your head, and so was *I*—"

"We were scared and lonely, and I don't know if we should've been or not, but—"

Kiss, sudden but *not* hard, and fuck if it isn't *just* like that kiss, that incredible kiss that went right through him—

*Goes* right through him, because it's Dick. It's Robin and it's Nightwing and it's *both* of them, *all* of them—

And Jason doesn't know which of them moves first, but they're pressed together and fucking making it *count*, arms crushed between them—except that Dick twists and *yanks*, and now he's holding Jason's hand away from himself—

Jason *has* another hand, and he puts it right on Dick's ass and squeezes—

Dick bites Jason's lip and moans, kissing harder, squeezing Jason's *hand* hard, and the kiss gets deeper, *more*, and Jason knows that he's being watched, that *they're* being watched, but he can't tell if it's Bruce or Tim. It has that weight *and* that itch, that sense that he could be doing more, *touching* more—

He pushes his knee between Dick's legs and gets another moan—

And then Dick's shaking his hand free and pushing it into Jason's hair, tugging and stroking at once, and it feels like Dick is learning him at *speed*, because Dick's *other* hand is on *his* ass, and it's possible that they're going to hit the deck and start rolling around *quickly*, but that is anything but a problem.

Jason smiles into the kiss and licks Dick's mouth, his palate—

Dick *bucks* against him and mutters something incomprehensible, but there's no time to ask the question before Dick has his tongue in Jason's mouth again, slipping it in and out and all the fuck *around*—Jesus, yes.

Jason gets his *other* hand on Dick's ass and tries to encourage him to thrust a little, buck for him—

Break, and Dick stepping back, almost *stumbling* back—

"Come *here*, Dick—"

"What—am I going to say to Kory?"

And that's actually an honest question, like maybe Jason is the font of wisdom for this particular endeavor—brain function, *now*. "That you finally took what you *wanted*. Or *did* Kory convert to Catholicism or something while I wasn't paying attention?"

Dick laughs—

"I always wanted to meet—her. Actually," Tim says, and when they turn to look at him—

Jason blinks. "Holy *shit*, kid."

Tim raises an eyebrow and stands hipshot, one knee—in seriously *dark* stockings—bent and dark red lips parted. The deep green dress barely makes it past mid-thigh and would almost certainly look better if there was some padding under it, but—

"Holy *jailbait* is what I think you *mean*, Jay," Dick says, backing away to play with Tim's hair, pushing it back over his forehead and letting it fall again, stroking it into a double curl and letting it fall again—

"Would you like some styling gel, Dick?" Bruce is standing back a little and watching—all of them.

Dick laughs again. "I think I want to know who *exactly* Tim's supposed to catch in this outfit."

"I'm sure I'll think of someone," Bruce says, and the smile he gives Dick is wry and *hot*. "Eventually."

Dick swallows. "I just—made out with Jay. In front of you."

Bruce nods slowly and *never* takes his eyes off Dick. Jason catches himself waiting for the *blink*—except that it feels more like waiting to come, to be *released*—

He doesn't have to wait. "Let Bruce fix Tim's hair," he says, grabbing Dick's shoulder and yanking him back around—

Dick splays his hand on Jason's chest, pushes a little—

And Jason has just enough time to wonder if Dick's going to balk again before Dick takes a handful of Jason's shirt and *hauls* Jay in—

No kiss.

No kiss? Jason raises his eyebrows—

"I keep trying to see the fucked up little *punk* in you, Jay..."

"I can call you a gaywad again if you think it'd help?"

"Gay... wad. Jay," Bruce says, and it definitely *sounds* like he's shaking his head, but Jason's *not* looking away from Dick right now. Just—

"Take what you want, Dick. I'm right here. *We're* right here."

Dick exhales sharply, frowning and shaking his head, but he still tugs Jason closer by his shirt, and closer than that—

"Kiss me again. Because I swear if you don't, I'm gonna... fuck, Big Bird, I'm too hard to think of a *threat*."

This time, the breath Dick takes is shaky— "You... are an incredibly attractive guy, Jay, and this is all just a little too ridiculously. I. *Hell*," Dick says, and both hands are on Jason's face, holding him still for a kiss that's shaking Jason hard—

*Dick* is shaking, but the kiss feels too hard to stop, too much—

Fuck, Jason can *feel* his lips swelling for it—and more when Dick starts biting his lips. Lower then upper then lower again, tongue inside deep where Jason can suck it, and—

This isn't going to stop again. This—

Jason growls and shoves Dick's shirt up, touching *skin* for the first time in years, and the feel of the hair beneath Dick's belly button on his fingertips makes him flex, growl again and *push*—

Dick lets himself be led, and it's just a few steps to the nice, sturdy disguise closet, which is solid *enough* to push Dick against it, break the kiss and go for Dick's throat—

"Nnh—Jay. God, your *mouth*—"

"Same as it's ever been... and you taste like something I *want*," Jason says, sucking and kissing Dick a better-looking collar than the thing he goes *out* in night after night—

And Dick brings one hand down to Jason's hip and *yanks*—

"*Fuck* yeah, Dick—"

"I can't help—I can't help but feel that we're not doing this entirely right..."

Jason holds the suck on Dick's pulse point until he can't taste anything but his own spit. "You have an *audience*. Go with it."

Dick bucks against him once, twice—shoves Jason *back*—

"Hey—"

And all but *tears* off his shirt.

"Okay, never mind, *good* plan," Jason says, and yanks off his own—

"God, *look* at you. You were always going to be incredible, Jay, but—" Dick shakes his head and strokes Jason's chest, sliding his thumbs over Jason's nipples before twisting them *hard*—

Jason grunts and does a little bucking of his own—

And Dick is grinning at him, fucking *glittering* a little—

"Oh, yeah, Big Bird...?"

Short nails digging into his pecs, and then Dick *rakes* them down, and the only problem Jason has with the welts rising is that they won't *last* long enough. Jason grabs Dick's wrists and just holds them for a little while, feeling Dick's pulse—just as fast as it should be—and wanting.

Definitely wanting. "What *do* you want?"

Dick licks his lips and twists his wrists back and forth, staring into Jason's eyes—squeezing his eyes shut.

"Oh, no, Dick, c'mon—"

"No, I'm not—" Dick laughs again, pulling Jason's arms out to the sides and walking up until they're chest to chest, skin to skin. "I'm not sure if it's an audience I *want*."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm *not*. Jay, I. All of us. Right?"

And the urge to be greedy and *focused* is, he has to admit, nothing against the urge to be *greedy* and just a bit—diffuse. Especially since the feel of Bruce and Tim watching—

"I'm happy to watch. If that's—ah. An issue," Tim says, and— "Oh. Also... I can be. There's entertainment over... here. For me. I—*Bruce*."

Dick blinks a few times and looks over Jason's shoulder— "Oh my God."

Okay, now he *has* to look—oh. Wow.

Bruce is holding Tim up in his arms—

Bruce is supporting Tim's weight with *one* arm and reaching up Tim's dress with the other, and that hidden hand is doing... something. Jason can't quite tell *what*, but whatever it is has Tim clutching at Bruce's shoulders and turning his face against Bruce's shoulder. And Bruce is *gazing* down at Tim, but that doesn't mean his attention isn't also on Dick and Jason—right.

"Okay, so we have *one* audience member—"

"He's not even—"

"He totally is, Dick. You *know* he is."

"I am," Bruce says, and does something *else*—

"Oh *fuck*," Tim says, kicking out with one leg—

"Ooh. I didn't notice the heels," Dick says. "Did he walk in them? At all? Or did you just—"

"Three steps," Bruce says, and looks up with a smile for both of them. "Perhaps we would all be more comfortable upstairs...?"

"Upstairs?" Dick says, in a *high* voice, at pretty much the same time Jason says, brilliantly,

"Uh?"

Bruce's smile gets wider, and just a *little* rueful—even as he *keeps* working Tim and making him fucking *kick*—

"B—"

"Bruce—"

"I would be... very grateful," Bruce says, turning his attention *fully* on Dick, who's nodding *exactly* like his dick has taken over all the thinking duties.

*Good* deal. But— "Uh—B. What are you doing to Tim? Exactly?"

Bruce hums and turns back to smile down at him. "He's wearing the panties I purchased to go with this dress..."

Dick chokes.

Jason pictures it—

Pictures it some more—

Pictures it from the *back*—shakes it off. "So... in the panties or out?"

"In. Just enough to stimulate his prostate through his perineum."

Dick's expression is that kind of weird one some guys get: like he'd just been kicked in the sac and *liked* it. Jason *strongly* suspects his own isn't much better.

And Bruce raises an eyebrow and *slowly* turns toward the stairs. Yes, yeah, and fuck yeah.

Jason wraps an arm around Dick's shoulders and leads him along, because they're both doing the erection stagger and brothers *help* each other.

They make it up the stairs *not* fast enough—especially since Tim keeps making little noises and periodically *kicking*—

Dick gives a shuddery sigh. "Does he do that a lot? The—kicking?"

"Mostly the noises. The kicking's fairly rare—but I think I'm going to have to examine that reflex in *detail*—"

Tim groans and they can *both* see him digging his nails in against Bruce's shoulders—

Bruce hums and walks *faster*, and when they get to his door, he kicks it wide and—

Yeah.

Bed. Great *big* bed, and there were so many times when Jason had felt *lost* in it, but they're going to do a damned good job of filling it—

"*Mmph*—"

Bruce is kissing Tim down onto the bed, or—no, he's holding Tim *up* against his body for the kiss, and Jason can't see what Bruce's hands are doing right now, but he's going to bet it's something Tim really, *really* likes—

Especially since that was a really *nice*—muffled—noise, and there's a high-heeled shoe flying past his head—

Dick catches it. "I say he leaves these on for as long as possible, Jay."

"I say you're a wise older man with a lot of *great* ideas, Dick," and Dick's grinning at him—

Dick's kissing him hard and yanking at Jason's shorts *and* shoving and pushing Jason back toward the bed. Good plan *all* around, and Jason lets himself get walked and fucking *molested* until the backs of his knees bump the edge of the bed and he can scoot on—

While Dick yanks his shorts and boxer-briefs down his legs. Jay gets his trainers and socks off, and—

Naked on Bruce's bed is not something he'd thought he'd ever do again, but it's also not something he'd ever thought he'd *have* again, and the two are very different things... just as being naked on Bruce's bed with Dick over him and *moving* is a very different animal than being naked on Bruce's bed with *Bruce* over him—

"I can't help but think—ah," and Tim's breathing is *rough*—"Possibly I should be naked, too? Please?"

Dick bites the line of his jaw and then turns to look at Tim. "Not a *chance*, little brother. Just be happy this room isn't bugged."

"It isn't? I mean—I'd assumed—"

"It's Bruce's *bedroom*, Tim—"

"It's totally bugged," Jason says, and pushes his hands into Dick's waistbands, getting a *nice* double handful of ass. "Let's all just accept that and move on. And *no*, Tim, you don't get to take off the dress."

"The hate would be greatly alleviated—oh. *Oh*, that's—my thigh. That's—God, *tongue*—"

Jason can't *see* that from here, but he can definitely picture it. And Dick is staring enough for both of them. "Dick...?"

"Lace. On the panties. He actually—" And the rest of that's cut off with a grunt when Jason reaches between them to give Dick's dick a good stroke, which wasn't what he *intended*, so he lets go— "Oh, God, Jay—"

"Keep *talking*," Jason says—no— "Wait, finish stripping off first—"

"Right, yeah," and Dick slips off the bed for the few cold and annoying seconds it takes for him to be naked and then straddles Jason again. "I was saying—lacy panties."

Jason whistles. "He ever do that to you?"

Dick shakes his head and licks his lips again—

"Wait, are they lacy all over?"

"Just—*hnn*—just the edges," Tim says. "Don't give him any more *ideas*—"

"To be fair," Bruce says, shifting slightly, "I've had the designs for weeks."

Jason snickers. "Of *course* you have, you giant freak."

Bruce hums again. "You always sound so fond when you call me that, Jay."

"Because you *are*. And I *am*."

"Mm, as you say. I think..." And Bruce is moving again, more seriously this time—

Tim yelps— "You could've just *asked* me to move—oh. Hello," he says, and he's on his hands and knees *facing* Jason and Dick.

"Hello *yourself*, little brother," Dick says, and immediately does his best to ruin the style Bruce had somehow found the time to put in Tim's hair.

Tim smiles at Dick like maybe he's freeing him from *bondage*—and the good ideas just keep *coming*, but—

"I can't decide whether I want the kid tied up or not," Jason says, and strokes the lean fucking *perfection* of Dick's hips.

Dick tugs on Tim's hair like he's thinking about it— "I don't know. I mean, we're probably going to want—I'm *definitely* going to want Tim to be *mobile*."

Mm. "Okay, yeah, there's that. In the *meantime*—why don't you fuck against me a little bit? Let Tim *see* the way you can move."

"Oh—please. And—*ohn*. God. *Bruce*—"

Dick turns— "Bruce..."

"Yes," Bruce says, and the bed is moving. Not *much*, but definitely rhythmically—

Jesus. "B. You're fucking his thighs—"

"And enjoying—immensely—his panties."

Dick's laugh is a little on the hysterical side, but— "I would, *too*. God, I—and oh, yes, little wing had a *request*," Dick says, and starts to *grind*—

Jason groans and goes for his rhythm, grinning up at Dick and gripping those hips *hard*, hard enough that it seems like he can feel Dick *thinking* about moving like that—

Like this—

"Jesus, I knew you could move like this, fucking *knew* it—"

"I'd say something about just needing motivation—but I *always* had that. God, *look* at you, Jay—"

"I'll french my mirror next time I see it, I promise, c'mon, faster—"

Dick laughs and slows *down*, turning his grind into *torture*—

"*Bastard*—"

"*Punk*—"

"*Beautiful*," Tim says, and when Jason turns, Tim looks *drunk*, eyes hazed and glittering at *once*—

And he's moving *with* them, which means—

"Oh my God," Dick says. "I—Bruce is using my rhythm. He's—" Dick groans and speeds up—

And Tim's eyes roll back as he starts grunting for every thrust, mouth open and the haze in his eyes taking over for the glitter. He looks *obscene* like this, made up pretty and somehow *used*.

Jason bites his lip and thrusts back against Dick, pushing one thumb into Tim's open mouth and getting it sucked *immediately*—"You are *such* a good boy."

Tim groans, bites Jason and starts rocking back into Bruce's thrusts, blush making his cheeks look even more hollow—

"Jay. I—I think I need more, need—" Dick moans and leans in, kissing Jason hard and wet, *good*—

Their legs tangle together and Dick pushes his hands into Jason's hair, pulls back and sucks Jason's lower lip—

And now his thrusts are short, almost *brutal* things—

Tim cries out around Jason's thumb—"*Please*."

"Oh—God, little brother, what do you need?"

"I—am about to come in these panties and I'm not—not sure how I *feel* about that—"

Laughing makes it feel like he and Dick are shaking themselves together, wrestling themselves into one *body*—

And Bruce's hum cuts through all of it, making it seem like everything Bruce does is connected to everything they're *all* feeling—

Something—

"You could consider relaxing and letting it happen," Bruce says—

Tim growls around Jason's thumb, pulls back—

Jason breaks the kiss to see Tim kneeling up and hiking the dress high enough that Jason can *see* those panties, which are very green, moderately lacy, and extremely fucking *packed* with a Tim in need—

*Fuck*—

Dick's mouth is hot and *wet* on his neck, making Jason's skin feel tight, making Jason want to—*need* to—

Flipping them leads to Dick's legs being *locked* around his body, knees digging in against Jason's ribs—which is an excellent reason to *use* Dick's flexibility for what it was made for. Jason hooks an arm under one of Dick's legs and bends it *back*—

"*Nnh*—Jay, you *beast*."

Jason snorts, and it sends a jolt to his dick, making him twitch and have to grind *harder*—"Like you've fucked *anybody* who didn't do this to you at least once."

"Usually—they wait until the *second* date—"

"Shut up and *take* it, Big Bird—"

"I can't believe you're calling me that *now*—"

And Tim cries out again—

Again—

Jason looks over and Tim has his arms wrapped around Bruce's neck, eyes closed, mouth open—panties down around his thighs and dress *hiding* everything important, including what Bruce is doing to make him make that noise. "B—"

"Penetration—"

Dick moans and his rhythm *stutters*—

Bruce turns to look down at Dick. "Two fingers," he says, and— "Would you like to do this to him, Dick?"

Dick arches and grunts like he's taken a shot—

And then *somehow* Jason is on his back again—

"Jay. Have to—can't *listen* to that voice like that, can't think—" And Dick is kissing his way down Jason's chest, twisting his nipples over and *over*—

Fuck, *in*, all the way down in one swallow, and—Jason laughs and groans and laughs *more*—

"Jay..."

And that *wasn't* Bruce asking a question as opposed to tasting Jason's fucking name, but— "Just thinking—I *completely* see why you were—*mm*—jealous of the Titans—"

Dick *chokes* around him, and maybe that's not the best possible reason to shove a hand into his hair—wait, no. Jason yanks out the tie and Dick's hair fucking *spills* on him, liquid and cool, silky—

"Watch," Bruce says, and Jason's all set to wonder what's *next*—

But he's just turning Tim's head toward him and Dick—

Tim moans—"*Jay*. You look—Bruce, I—please, faster, harder—"

"Do you truly want me to give you an orgasm—"

"*Yes*," Tim says, and Jason has to laugh again, because—

Well, it's not like Tim ever *makes* unnecessary noise on the street *or* in training, but Jason is still sure—down to the bones currently being sucked *out* of him—that *that* was his 'I'm about to stab you' voice. Now, though—just noise, rhythmic and high, *sharp*—

And Bruce is murmuring something Jason can't *hear*—"Hey, share with the *class*, B—"

"I was informing Tim about a fantasy I'd had of you and Dick sharing him... and asking whether he would like to try to make that happen."

Jason grunts and pumps into Dick's mouth. Just—*images*—

And Dick is *shaking*—

"Would you, Tim?"

"I—I—" And the rest of that is a *scream*, and there's come spattering Jason's chest and arm—

Dick pulls *off*—"Sorry, Jay, I really need to—ah. *Something*—"

*Right*, yeah— "B, hurry up and *do* something to Dick before he bursts a blood vessel. Before he makes *me* burst a blood vessel—"

"Happily," Bruce says, and Tim makes that sound that means that—heh—*someone* is pulling out of him just a little too *slow* for comfort, and then moves away from Bruce to sit against the headboard, which—no.

Jason goes to *get* him, picking him up and spreading him over his lap. He's nice and loose—but still manages to make a protesting noise when Jason pulls the panties back up—

"*Jay*, Jesus, isn't the hazing over yet?"

"In *this* family we like to *multitask*. Hence, hazing *and* fucking," Jason says, lifting Tim's arms until they're around *his* neck and letting his dick start the process of making a wonderful mess on Tim's pretty, pretty dress. But—there's no movement in his peripheral vision. Jason turns—

And Dick is just sitting on his heels, staring at Bruce like he's a *stranger*.

"Dick, go *get* some."

"I..." Dick shakes his head and blinks, obviously trying to steal a little focus from his rock-hard dick. "Bruce. Do you really—"

"*Yes*," Bruce says, and offers his hand.

"It's just. You should... say something else. I think that would help."

"What do you want me to say?"

"God, I—" Dick scrubs at his face with his hands. "I can *hear* how hard you are in your voice, and that's making me a little—I never thought I'd ever—"

"I worked very hard to avoid your hearing anything of the kind—"

"Because you thought it was inappropriate, and also you couldn't reconcile your feelings for me as your. Your son. I—got that," Dick says, and *searches* Bruce.

Bruce nods and offers his hand. "I will never reconcile those feelings. I learned that with Jason. Please, come closer."

Dick stares at Bruce's hand and licks his lips. "Just like that?"

"If you wish," Bruce says, and there's a part of Jason which thinks he should maybe give the two of them a little privacy, but—

There'll be other times for that, he thinks. Other *chances*. *Additionally*, he's pretty sure that Tim *would* stab him if he tried to pull him out of here now. He's still high on his orgasm and using all that newly-regained brain power to focus on Bruce and Dick...

To the point where it takes him a *long* moment to notice that Jason is staring at him. When he does, he blushes impressively—

"*Now* you blush?"

"I'll get back to you on that when I've gained control over my involuntary systems—"

"I'll be sure to help you work on that," Bruce says—

Dick laughs—but it gets cut off, because Dick had apparently gotten over *enough* of himself and his fucked up childhood to put himself in range of a kiss. And that...

"Did *you* get a kiss, Tim?"

"Ah—several. My cheeks, my forehead—"

"A *real* kiss," Jason says, grabbing Tim's hips and shaking a little.

Tim raises an eyebrow at him. "If what you're referring to is a kiss on the mouth with a lot of tongue—"

"Snippy, *snippy*. Maybe I shouldn't *let* you watch the show."

Tim narrows his eyes *slightly* in warning—

"Oh, yeah...?"

And he *could've* stopped Tim from pulling his knife—but it would've helped to know that he *had* the sheath on under there. As it is, it's necessary to wrestle the kid a little bit—something his dick is *extremely* happy to have him do, despite the fact that Dick is making some seriously interesting noises—

Heh, mental *note*: If he *ever* needs Tim to be too distracted to put up much of a fight, make Bruce mack on Dick a little bit, because *now*—

Tim is straddling his thighs again, but this time his ass is in an excellent position—again, his dick is weighing in—and Jason's got Tim's pretty little knife. What to do, what to do...

Dick bucks hard enough to make *Tim* gasp—

Bruce moans and *clutches* Dick's arms, pulling him closer—

Dick struggles—

Bruce lets go and pulls back. "Dick?"

"Just wanted my arms free, boss. Bruce. Uh—no, I'm not going to think about other things I could call you right now—"

"Probably for the best, there, Big Bird. He always gets a little nuts when *I* call him Dad—"

Bruce growls, low and serious, scanning them all and touching his tongue to his lower lip—

"Out of curiosity," Tim says, "Ah... is this a kink I should know about?"

Jason laughs and Dick does, too. "I'm going to go with 'yes' for that one, little brother. And—and." Dick lunges in for another kiss, cupping Bruce's face and crawling *on* Bruce, shoving him back against the wall and managing to get his knees *on* Bruce's shorts. They were already down around his thighs with his jock and boxer briefs, and now they're on the bed, and—

Yeah. Jason can't *see* their dicks, but they have to be lined up tight against each other, rubbing and pressing, and that's just the kind of *pretty* thought that makes it necessary for him to tuck *his* dick between Tim's cheeks—

"Oh. Jay..."

*That* sounded like a smile, and really— "You are so fucking *wonderfully* bent, kid. *Never* change."

Tim snorts. "Really, Jay. How much more 'bent' am I than anyone else on this bed?"

Dick hums and pulls back from the kiss. "You *are* wearing the dress."

"And the makeup," Jason says—

"And those lovely stockings," Bruce says, stroking his way down Dick's back and staring into Tim's eyes.

Tim makes a slightly strangled noise—something between protest and 'do me'—and Jason starts to thrust a little, trying to get maximum touch to that sweet little hole that Bruce had *finally* tried out—mm.

"How'd you like being inside him, B?"

"I'm afraid I'm not sure. I should... hm. Probably try again."

Dick laughs and cups Bruce's cheeks again, resting his forehead against Bruce's own. "You... I think I probably would've freaked out in a *titanic* fashion if I'd had any idea that you were this *perverse*, Bruce—"

"The thought had occurred," Bruce says, and moves to nuzzle Dick's mouth, pushing his free arm between them to stroke and pet Dick's chest.

Dick laughs again. "I can't decide what I want to do next. I can't... ah and that's my nipple. You're playing with my *nipple*, Bruce—"

"I'd like to taste you there."

Dick groans. "Jay. Is he always—does he... God, don't stop—"

Bruce hums and moves *with* Dick, turning—

And giving Jason and Tim an excellent view of the way he's twisting and *pulling* on Dick's nipple.

Jason licks his lips and does the same to *both* of Tim's nipples, and— "He can be pretty focused when you get him started, yeah..."

Tim moans and pushes back against him—

Bruce looks up and smiles at Tim before turning back to Dick. "There's a certain curious force to my desire for you whenever you seem especially... shocked."

Dick exhales sharply and licks his lips. "So what you're saying is that you're *invested* in driving me crazy."

"The intensity is powerful. The temptation more so," and Bruce bends in to lick Dick's throat—*bite*—

And all three of them make noise for that, which may or may *not* be why Bruce bites *harder*—

"*God*—Bruce, that feels so *good*—"

Bruce's growl sounds almost *desperate*, and Tim is working himself back rhythmically, and yeah—getting *nice* and hard again. Jason twists Tim's nipples *hard*, getting a shout that makes Dick turn to see—

And something hot and *serious* flares behind his eyes when he sees Tim like this, something that makes Jason seriously *need*—

"B, where's the—"

And Bruce reaches behind him and tosses Jason the lube with perfect accuracy even though his eyes are closed and he's still just *holding* Dick with his teeth—

"God, I love you," Jason says, slicking his dick fast and sliding *right* in—

"Oh—oh, God, Jay, yes, *yes*—"

Jason groans and— "Fuck, you got him *all* ready for me—c'mon, Tim, bounce on my dick a little. *Show* them how you can take it—"

Tim nods and does it, gripping his own thighs and *riding* Jason because he loves it, because he's the best little boy in the world, because—

"God, *yeah*—"

And Dick gasps and whimpers when Bruce stops biting, bends right back for Bruce's push until he's flat on his back and arching, writhing for the way Bruce is stroking his body—

"Jesus fucking—Dick, how you're *ever* surprised when people want to bone you is fucking *beyond* me—"

"What was that you said? Something about frenching the—mirror. Oh, Bruce, you really are kissing my chest. And my abdomen. And those are *wet* kisses, with a lot of tongue and—" And the rest of that is a noise with a lot of n's and o's.

"Hey, kid, he sounds a little like you," Jason says, and bucks and grinds a little, tries to focus on something other than how *good* Tim feels, how tight and *hot*—"Oh. Fuck. Slow down, Tim—"

"I'd rather not—"

Jason laughs, gasps and gets lost again, because Tim is clenching around him, holding him tight, tight, *tight* while he rides—

"In fact, I—really think you should come in me, Jay—"

Dick moans and shudders hard enough to shake the bed, turning and looking—his eyes are glazed and his mouth is hanging open—

And Tim almost *spasms* around him—"*Nnh*—never thought. Dick, I know—I know what that look *feels* like—"

"God, little brother, I—" Dick reaches out and takes Tim's hand, squeezing it— "It's just that Bruce isn't really. He's not *sucking*."

Jason looks, and—fuck, yeah, Bruce is *moving* on Dick's dick, but it looks more like mouthing than anything else, and— "Tasting you. He's. God, B, what are you gonna *do*?"

And Bruce pulls off slow, stopping when he has just the head in his mouth and sucking hard—

"*Bruce*—"

Tim cries out and starts to shake— "I want—I want *more*—"

Bruce releases Dick and licks his lip. "You should definitely have... more," he says, and goes down in one smooth move, swallowing Dick *down*—

Dick shouts and tries to push his hands into Bruce's short hair—

Bruce pulls off again. "Tim," he says to Dick. "Please?"

Dick makes a sound that sounds like pain and want at *once*—"You want me to? You want to see—"

"*Please*," Tim says— "I. I mean. Sorry, I can't seem to—"

Jason pets Tim's hair. "It's okay, baby bro. *Let* us know what you want."

"*Dick*. I—I'd like to suck you. I mean, if you want to. Or—" Tim shakes his head, groans and shakes his head again, clenching and fucking *flexing* around him—

"Hold on *just* a sec there," Jason says, pushing his arms beneath Tim's and cupping his shoulders from the front so he can *pull* Tim down onto his dick—

"That shouldn't look so *good*," Dick says, and Jason can't make himself focus enough to get a read on Dick's expression—

Bruce hums and pulls Dick back up onto his knees— "I disagree. They're beautiful and in love."

"And that's all that *counts*? Bruce, since *when*?"

"Since I learned that I could not make myself more than what I was, than what I *am*. Please, Dick. Show me... show me how you would love Tim..."

Tim groans like he's dying, or maybe just losing important parts of his sanity, which Jason can *understand*. With *all* of himself, starting with his happy, *happy* dick and spreading out through the rest of him, warm and sweet and so perfect—

"C'mon, Big Bird. Let Tim show *you* a thing or two—"

"It's really okay. You don't have to. I don't. Oh, God, moving, you're *moving*, and you're coming closer—" Tim gasps, does it again, again—

"Don't hyperventilate, kid—"

"It's just me," Dick says, cupping Tim's face— "You look *beautiful*, by the way. In case I didn't—mention. God, I want to take you back to New York with me—"

"Don't be fucking *greedy*, Big Bird—oh, *fuck*, that *clench*. Fucking *A*, Tim, nobody has an ass like you—"

"I." Dick laughs and strokes Tim's mouth. "Are you sure this won't be too much for you, little brother?"

Tim groans again and loses his rhythm on Jason's dick—

But that's what the grip he has on the kid's shoulders is for. Jason bends down to kiss the top of Tim's head and *gives* it to him—

Tim *wails*—cuts himself off— "Dick. Please. I—I don't *know*, but I want—oh, please, Jay, *please*—"

"Please what?"

"Don't *stop*—"

"*Hell*," Dick says, and— "His hips, Jay, hold his *hips*—"

"*Anything* you say," Jason says, and cupping Tim's hips feels like coming home, feels like it completes some kind of *circuit* in him, the thing in him that makes up the fuck and maybe also important parts of his *mind*—

Which slips and *sparks* when Dick cups the back of Tim's head and pulls Tim down and down—

Dick's cry is sharp and *loud*, and Jason knows Tim's sucking hard and *serious*, almost certainly using that sweet little tongue the way he was fucking *born* to, and—

What is this *like* for Tim? In some ways it *has* to be crazier than that aborted threesome with Bruce, but the only tension in him right now is the *right* kind, the kind that's going to make Jason come his fucking brains out *soon*—

It's Dick, and everything he is, everything he can do and say and *be* for all of them, and he *knows* Tim is feeling it, and maybe that's another kind of circuit—the thing that connects Jason to the kid, that tells him what Tim needs, tells him what he can *have*—

His—

"God, Tim, go *easy*," Dick says, petting Tim's hair almost frantically— "Not. He's not *breathing*, and oh, God, his *throat*—"

"So *tight*—"

"*Yes*," and Dick shudders all over. "He's—I want to *thrust*—"

Tim makes a sound that sounds like all the 'yes' in the *world*—

Dick moans—

Jason *flexes* and gives it to Tim harder, and the rhythm is fucking *rudimentary*, but he knows Tim likes it that way, needs it the way Jason always needs his lovers to lose control at least a little bit—

And somehow that's Bruce *behind* him, pressed to Jason's back and as hard as Jason has ever felt him. At *some* point he'd ditched his shirt, too, and God—

Just the feel of all that hair, all those *scars*—"Bruce—"

"Jay," Bruce says, and fucking *gently* tilts Jason's head to the side, baring Jason's *throat*—

He can't— "God, I—*please*—"

Tim makes a sound deep in his chest—

Dick is staring and shuddering—pumping his *hips*, and it's not as hard or as fast as Jason is, but—

*Bite*, right to the join of Jason's neck to his shoulder, and it's Bruce, it's *Bruce*, and it's been so fucking long since he's *felt* that—

And Jason doesn't think he's completely *solid*, anymore, and his control—

He wants Bruce *inside* him, right now, just like *this*, and it doesn't matter that it's been years, that it would hurt so bad he'd probably fucking *cry*—

"*Bruce*," he says again, and he thinks maybe all of that is in the sound of it, because Dick is reaching to touch his face—

Because Bruce is thrusting against Jason's *back* as he holds Jason with his teeth, as he growls and moans, *licks*—

"Oh, *fuck*," Dick says, hand falling from Jason's face—

Yeah, he's got Tim by the hair now, and so much for treating the 'lady' with care, because that mouth—

*He* wants that mouth, and he wants Bruce's dick, and he wants Dick's *something*—

"Fuck, B, *please*, c'mon, I need more—"

Bruce bites him harder for a second so hot that Jason can feel fresh sweat prickling his skin all *over*—"Jay. Let me—"

"*Yes*—"

And Bruce yanks Jason's head back by his hair, and the kiss tastes like—

*Dick*.

Fuck, oh, *fuck*, he's tasting Dick, and Bruce is kissing him like they'd never stopped, like there's no one else in the room, like it *has* been forever—

Jason doesn't *know*, and he's lost his rhythm entirely with Tim, just thrusting and pushing and fucking *shoving*—

"Oh. Oh. Oh, Tim. Jay. *Bruce*—" Dick laughs breathlessly, groans—

Tim makes another of those *deep* sounds, and Jason knows he needs *air*, but there's nothing Jason can do about it right now, nothing but this *kiss*, and the way it's stealing everything in him, replacing his spine with something liquid and mobile, fucking *oiling* his hips for the fuck—

Bruce—

Bruce pulls out of the kiss and leaves Jason gasping, fucking *groaning*—

And begging with *all* of himself when Bruce spreads his cheeks and starts *playing* with Jason's hole, maybe feeling all the time Jason *hadn't* done anything—

It makes him feel small and it makes him feel *hot*, and he can't keep himself from bending over Tim—

*Kissed*, and Dick starts fucking Jason's mouth with his tongue *immediately*—

Lube on his ass—

Bruce's *fingers*, two of them, and it's too tight and too much, but more, please *more*—

Jason sucks Dick's tongue too *hard*, but he can't stop, can't breathe, can't *think*—

And then Dick cries *out* into his mouth—

Again—

*Again*, and the kiss is too messy to hold, too—

Dick *rears* back, stiffening all over—

Fuck, he's coming in Tim's mouth, he's *losing* it for Tim, for all of them—

Tim clenches around Jason *hard*—

And when Bruce hits Jason's prostate there's nothing but sex, nothing but the pleasure running through him like a shot from a fucking taser—

"Jay, *yes*," Bruce says, and there may or may *not* be anything after that, because all Jason can do is come and *come*, buried in Tim just the *right* way—

Tim's shouting and clenching around him—

White-out, and the only thing Jason can do is fucking *brace* himself as everything burns up—

Jason's elbows give out and his chest is on Tim's back. One of them is breathing like a fucking bellows—no, both of them are, and Bruce is pulling *out*. Damn, just—

He can't manage to protest that with more than a groan, and it's possible that he should get *off* Tim. Jason pushes back up onto his hands—

Dick moans, and when Jason looks, he's sitting on his heels and petting Tim's face and hair, head thrown back and neck looking extremely biteable. Kissable. *Everything*-able.

It's *also* possible that Jason's fucking blown *out*. He kneels up and cups Tim's hips again. "Can you breathe for me, Tim?"

Tim moans, nods, and pushes up onto *his* hands, and Jason waits another moment before pulling out at *just* the right speed to get another moan out of the kid.

Once he's out, he *can* breathe again, but everything smells—*tastes*—like a whole fuck of a lot of gay sex. And he can *feel* Bruce staring at him.

Jason turns, and the look on Bruce's face—

Fuck, he looks almost *young*, desperate and hungry, and Jason *can't*.

He hauls on Bruce until they're pressed close, until Bruce's dick is a hot *bar* against his abdomen, slick and twitching even before Jason can make the kiss anything like good. Just—

He wants to say everything with this kiss, reiterate and promise and beg and *everything*, because it's Bruce, because it's *this* bed—

Because he's home, and the only thing he can do about it is *be* here and take absolutely everything he can, including Bruce's hard, hot mouth, wet and still—

Jesus, he needs to blow Dick *one* of these days—

Tim moans and it's muffled—Dick is kissing him, and probably making sure there's *nothing* left of the kid's forebrain. Heh.

Jason pulls back. "Was it what you wanted, B? That little scene?"

Bruce smiles. "That depends on Tim."

And yeah, of *course* Bruce would've wanted that *mostly* because of Tim's fantasies. "Let's ask him," Jason says, turning to see Dick bending Tim back, kissing him *seriously*—and holding one finger up.

Bruce hums and sets his hands somehow *cautiously* on Jason's hips.

And—God, it's not like Jason can't understand the caution, but he doesn't *want* it. He covers Bruce's hands with his own and *makes* Bruce press harder—

Bruce clutches him just the way he *should*, and Jason feels himself relaxing in ways that even the orgasm couldn't make him do. Bruce.

Jason closes his eyes and just *feels* it, letting the memories wash over him, take him everywhere he needs to be—

And Tim is moaning constantly now, *right* into Dick's mouth by the sound of it—

"You stroking him off, Big Bird?"

Dick pulls back and licks his lips. "I really can't... he's so *hard*, Jay."

Jason strokes Bruce's knuckles. "Yeah, and when he gets like that in training? He never stops until *I* tell him to. All but fucking *beg* him to, because all the sex he puts out could light a damned *city*. Or get a city to fuck like rabbits. *Something*."

"Ooh. Little brother, don't you know that you're supposed to be taking four to six 'showers' a day at this point in your life?"

Tim's moan has a laugh *in* it, and— "I—ah. Try to avoid indulging—mm—my more obsessive tendencies—"

"Perhaps I should try that sometime," Bruce says, and starts kissing the back of Jason's neck and his shoulders—

"Some *other* time, B," and Jason reaches back and pulls until Bruce is pressed against him again—

"Jay—"

"Have a little *skin*, B—and. Mm. How should we get you off?"

Bruce takes a deep, shaky breath— "I'm afraid the possibilities have left me somewhat... stymied."

"Possibilities is a *good* word," Dick says, and starts stroking Tim faster— "Oh, yeah, get those hands on my shoulders. Hold *on*."

"I'm—trying not to *clutch*—"

"But I *like* clutching, Tim. I *love* clutching. Clutching means I'm doing this *right*."

Jason grins. "He likes a little twist sometimes..."

"Like this?"

And now Tim *is* clutching—

And Bruce is stroking Jason's hips and sides, his chest and abdomen. He reaches down between Jason's legs to just *cup* Jason's sac, maybe feel the weight a little, make note of differences, or—

"Talk to me, Bruce—"

"I missed you, Jay. I missed you so much that I couldn't. I had Alfred hide all of your things, put them places I wouldn't think to look when I was wandering sleepless and *hurt*..."

Jason closes his eyes again and presses back against Bruce. "It's all right, B, it's—"

"I would tell myself that it was like what I felt when I pushed Dick away, and it was. The manor was empty and quiet, and I was faced with the realization that I had made it into an oversized crypt, a monument to loss—"

"God, *Bruce*. I—all you ever had to do was *call* me," Dick says, and somehow it's *impressive* that he manages to get that much sincerity in when he's *also* giving Tim the handjob of his *life*—

"I am weak in many ways," Bruce says, and splays one hand over the center of Jason's chest. "I live with fear because it was nearly the first thing I knew... and sometimes I can do nothing but surrender to it—"

"It *can't* be that way anymore," Jason says, knocking his head back lightly against Bruce's face. "I had to stay away for—for a lot of damned reasons, and some of them were even good ones, but you *have* a family, B—"

"*Lovers*," Tim says, and it sounds like he wants to say more than that, but all that comes out is high-pitched noise, rhythmic and desperate—

"What *he* said," Dick says, and Jason watches him squeeze Tim *hard*—

"*Please*—"

"Come for me, little brother—"

"*Fuck*," Tim says, and now he's shaking and tensing, relaxing and pumping into Dick's fist, tensing *again*—

"God, *look* at that, B—"

"I can't look away," Bruce says, and bites Jason's shoulder again, *slowly* increasing the pressure until the pain starts mixing it up with all the endorphins running through him and Jason wants—

Something. *More*. He thinks about having Bruce in his mouth, about Dick having Bruce in his mouth—

Theoretically, at least, they could *all* pile on him, but Tim would need to get *off* first—

"Give him a finger, Big Bird—"

Dick bucks and bites his lip, *breathes*—"I—yeah?"

"Please, oh—oh, I want—"

"He's *nice* and slick," Jason says, and then has to *grunt* because Bruce is biting hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make Jason want to go loose all over and just let Bruce do *any* damned thing—so long as it's everything.

And knowing that Bruce is *still* watching Dick and Tim just makes it better, makes it more *connected*, like maybe they all have a part in getting Tim off, or like Dick *could* be the one with Bruce's dick pressed to the base of his spine, like Tim could be stroking and biting—

So *good*, and the way Tim keeps his balance when Dick moves him makes Jason feel proud and hungry at the same damned time—

And then Tim's eyes are rolling back in his head for Dick's push—

"God, that's your *come*, Jay—"

"And the lube *Bruce* shoved in there—"

Dick moans and *immediately* starts thrusting, wrapping his hand around Tim's dick and starting to twist and pull, stroke and *take*—

Tim reaches out with shaking hands—

And Bruce moves them close enough that *he* can take Tim's hands in his own—

"Oh—*Bruce*—"

Of *course* Tim can tell without opening his eyes, and watching him use what looks like every *ounce* of his hand strength to hold on to Bruce feels a lot like saying *goodbye*—

Which is to say that it makes him itch *hard* under the skin while also making him want to fight, hurt—

He doesn't have to say goodbye to anyone.

He doesn't have to go anywhere.

He—

And Jason can't tell if it's a relief or *not* when Tim's scream cuts off everything in his brain but the need to pay *attention*, to *see* Tim spasming and coming all over Dick's hand—

"Oh, that's good, that's *so* good, little brother—God, the way you *feel*—" And Dick lets go of Tim's dick and uses his slick-sticky hand to tilt Tim's head back for a kiss, another—

Bruce *licks* the bites on Jason's neck and shoulders—

Dick pulls out of the kiss and shoves his own fingers into his mouth—

Tim kneels up *sharply*, grunting for the *loss* of Dick and turning to *help* Dick clean his own hand—

"Fuck, they look *good*—"

"Beautiful," Bruce says—*corrects*—

"Yeah, okay, I can go with that," Jason says, and reaches back to pat Bruce's hips. "Get up near the head of the bed for us, B."

"I—"

"*Do* it. You know we're not done with you."

Tim rears back and grins over his shoulder, lipstick smeared a little and eyes *hectic*. "*Really* not, Bruce."

"Mm. But *first*—" Dick body-slams Tim to the bed and covers him, giving him something like the world's dirtiest *and* most thorough hug, complete with a grind and a lot of bites—

"Oh, *God*, Dick—"

Dick hums again and starts kissing and biting and *licking* his way down Tim's body—after hiking the dress up under Tim's *arms*—

Bruce moves to the head of the bed—staking out a position where he can still have an *excellent* view—

Tim is writhing for Dick, tossing his head a little—

And Dick finally yanks the panties all the way off, tossing them—

Bruce *catches* them, and Jason is probably the only one of them who gets to see Bruce bringing them to his face and breathing *deep* before tucking them under his pillow.

"You *freak*—"

Bruce just smiles—and nods at Dick and Tim. Tim has his hands buried in Dick's hair while Dick licks and sucks at the shaft of Tim's dick—

"Jesus, Dick, don't *torture* the kid—"

"Mm. Says the guy who *cuts* on him whenever he gets the *right* kind of hard," Dick says, and flicks his tongue against the head while Tim whimpers and yanks at Dick's hair—

"God—oh, God—Dick, please, I—I don't think I can—"

"Just let me get you *clean*, little brother—"

Just—damn. If Dick is like this all the time, the other Titans probably want to make a *shrine* to the guy. Some place they can worship *and* fear. Jason shakes his head and grins, giving himself a calm-down squeeze and trying not to lose it *too* much for Tim's noises—

"Dick," Bruce says, "would you like to be inside him?"

Dick moans and darts down to bite Tim's inner thighs, one after the other— "I think—really yes. That is—um. Not right *now*, but—Tim, would you want that?"

"If Jason—I mean. God, I don't—"

"Just say *yes*, baby bro," Jason says, crawling over and resting a hand on Tim's throat. "Remember what I said about *family*."

"I remember *everything* you've said to me, and I—I can't help wondering if this—ah. I can't help wondering if this interlude is... outside the rules."

Dick licks his lips. "That's... an incredibly good question. Jay? Bruce?"

"I would have this whenever it was offered," Bruce says, and even though he only strokes his thighs *once*, it manages to look incredibly restless. "With all of you, or with one of you at a time."

Jason blows out a breath and strokes the side of Tim's throat with his thumb. "That's about as clear as it gets. I—yeah. I feel the same. I feel like that should scare the living *shit* outta me, but there you are. Dick?"

"I—really, really, *really* need to talk to Kory." Dick shakes his head like a dog and squeezes Tim's thighs. "The fact that I still really want to bring Tim *with* me for that—or you, Jay—I." Dick laughs and kneels up, tossing his hair in a futile attempt to straighten it out. "Do you have any *idea* how many times she brought up the idea of a threesome with you, little wing?"

"And you turned her *down*? Fucking come close enough for me to *smack* you, Dick—"

"Tim," Dick says. "How do *you* feel about this?"

"Um... in flight? Rather stoned? I'm not altogether sure how I feel about the cross-dressing aspects of this particular endeavor, but—um. Yes. I like the idea—with reservations that revolve wholly around Jay."

Jason smiles ruefully and squeezes Tim's throat a little, just enough that his eyes slip most of the way closed. "I love you. I'm *in* love with you. And that means I want you to get all the happiness you can fucking stand, kid. Which mostly boils down to: make sure it's *filmed*."

Dick snorts—

"I would be honored to help with that last," Bruce says, and his voice is both mild *and* rough—

"Oh yeah. We were gonna do something about that monster over there," Jason says, grinning at Dick—

Dick blinks and looks up—and licks his lips. "Oh yes. We really, *really* were. Still with us, Tim?"

"Oh... very much so," Tim says, sitting up and turning onto his hands and knees before crawling toward Bruce in a nice little *stalk*. The fact that the dress is still hiked up and that his makeup's a little blurred on the edges—

It's a fact.

And Dick is staring at Tim's ass. "I feel *strongly* that I shouldn't be perving quite this much—"

"Oh, you should. You *totally* should," Jason says, and claps Dick on the shoulder.

Though it *is* possible that it shouldn't be quite this *easy*, with Jason moving up on Bruce's right side and Dick on Bruce's left with Tim crawling right up *between* Bruce's legs—

Bruce looks like someone hit him with a joy-hammer. *Hard*—"Robins."

Dick and Jason snort together—

"Not *quite*, Bruce," and Dick slides his hand up the inside of Bruce's leg and thigh. "But what do you *want*?"

"Everything," Bruce says, and cups Tim's face. "But first, I'm inclined toward tasting you in Tim's mouth."

Tim touches his tongue to his lower lip. "I'm not quite sure how much of that flavor is left—"

"Then I will simply have to *search* for it," and Bruce tugs Tim close, kissing him softly over and over in a way that somehow makes it incredibly obvious just how *swollen* Tim's mouth is—and just how much Tim wants the *real* kiss. For Jason?

Jason would be shocked if that wasn't at least a *part* of it, but... maybe it doesn't have to be much of one, because when Bruce slips his tongue into Tim's mouth, Tim shudders all over and kneels up for it, resting his hands on Bruce's incredible shoulders and just—

"God, I can *feel* Tim opening for that," Dick says, wondering and low—

"Yeah. *Exactly*," Jason says, and reaches between Bruce and Tim to get a hold on Bruce's dick, pushing it out between Tim's spread thighs— "Hold him for us, Tim."

Tim nods, hums, and does it, and that doesn't leave all that *much* for Dick and Jason to work with, but it's enough for Dick to get started, sucking on the head—

Bruce grunts into Tim's mouth and shudders, and *that* means this won't take long at all.

"Damn, one day I really want us to spend some *time* on you, B..."

Bruce pulls back out of the kiss and leans his head back against the wall, licking his lips— "I. You'd make me surrender everything—"

"*Yeah*, we would," and Jason pushes a hand into Dick's tangled hair, feeling the sweat at his scalp, the messy *flow* of it— "I know you want that—"

"Yes, Jay—"

"*Need* it—"

"*Please*," Bruce says, opening his eyes again, and they're wild and dazed—

"Oh. I feel as though I should—move," Tim says—

"No—"

"*Don't*," and Bruce strokes Tim's cheeks, smiles— "You've been such a friend to me, Tim..."

"I just—we've just talked, and I haven't—"

"So generous. All of you, of course. Tim—I'll do everything in my power not to fail you, not to—to *hurt*," Bruce says, and tugs Tim in for another kiss, deep and *hot*.

Jason looks down, and Dick is *working* the head of Bruce's dick while Tim flexes his thighs around the shaft— "Damn. *My* turn."

Dick hums and holds up a finger—

Bruce groans into Tim's mouth and *thrusts*, moving Tim and making him make a sharp little noise into Bruce's mouth—

And Dick pulls off slow, saliva and pre-come making a thin little rope between his mouth and the head—

Jason slips his hand out of Dick's hair and *dives* in, licking Dick's mouth a little—

Wet sound—

"*Please*," Bruce says, thrusting again and again, and God, Tim already had a *taste* of that—

Jason takes the head in and immediately gives Bruce a scrape with his teeth—

Tim yelps and shivers—

"What was that?" And Dick is petting Jason's hair—

"He. Tucked me. My dick, between my legs—"

Jason groans and sucks *hard*, following Bruce's rhythm as much as he can and wanting *faster*—

"God, Tim, you can—you can feel everything, can't you?"

"*Yes*," Tim says, and— "I—mm. I don't know if I want to get hard again or *not*—"

"The responsible, Nightwingish part of me would like to point out that—heh. *You* don't have to go on patrol tonight."

Jason laughs around his mouthful—

Bruce shudders again, and this time it lasts for a *while*—

"I—I have to go *home*—"

"Damn," Dick says, and gives Jason's hair a tug. "That's *true*, but... oh, I'd really like to make you come again, little brother—"

Tim moans, loud and low—until it isn't, and Jason would like to know which *one* of them is kissing the kid, his *boy*, his beautiful and perfect boy—

And it feels like Bruce is leaking a little more pre-come for every suck, like he's trying to paint Jason's mouth, mark him with more than his teeth—

"Mmm, I—you're a *very* good kisser, Tim, and I think I need another—taste," Dick says, tugging on Jason's hair—

Jason pulls back—

And he's kissing Dick again, Bruce's dick sliding against his cheek, *pushing* against Jason's cheek with every thrust, and Dick is moaning into his mouth, licking and doing his own kind of pushing—

Yeah, Dick's turn. Jason pulls back and kneels up, stroking Dick's shoulder and upper back—

"God, *Bruce*," Dick says, and then takes Bruce in again—

"Loved," Bruce says, hoarse and *hungry*-sounding— "Always *loved*," and Jason knows that Bruce is talking about all of them, *to* all of them, and it doesn't matter that Tim's new—

Bruce has had a *taste*, and Jason knows with absolutely all of himself that he's never going to give any of this up, not one *moment* of it—

Bruce groans and wraps an arm around Tim, pulling him *hard* against himself and taking another kiss. Jason needs—

He can *have*, and it's the easiest thing in the world to push *into* the kiss, to feel Tim's mouth dragging against his own and his cheek, to taste Bruce's tongue and *live* in the feel of Tim nibbling the corner of his mouth, *panting* against him because there's no way that Tim's getting much air in Bruce's hold—

Dick's grunting around Bruce, and Jason can *feel* how hard he must be sucking by the way Bruce is just tensing harder and harder. He feels like a wall made of flesh, like something so much more than a man—

"That's—" Jason licks his lips and then licks a stripe up Bruce's cheek while Tim goes in for another kiss all his own. "That's the *thing* about you, B. You're so much *more* than everyone else, but you *are* just a man. And that—God, I love you—"

Bruce grunts again, goes *rigid*—

And now Jason knows *exactly* what sound Dick makes when Bruce is coming in his mouth, knows that it's high and needy and full of *yes*—

And knows that Tim will groan for it—

And knows that *he'll* fucking well *twitch* for it, even though he's a good few minutes of *focused* attention from actually starting to get hard again—yeah.

Tim spreads his thighs to free Bruce—and gets clutched even harder for a moment—

"Oh, I—don't have to move just yet."

Dick kneels up and throws his head back, licking his lips and shivering. *He's* still soft, too, but—

"I think I might just lose what's left of my mind. I. Jay, how do you *take* it?"

"Heh. Mostly? By never, ever thinking of him as Batman unless it's *absolutely* necessary."

Dick tilts his head forward and smiles ruefully at him, only his lips are a little swollen and red and—

"Damn, you look *obscene*, Big Bird—"

"Why, *thank* you, little wing. I *feel* a little obscene. And—you know, it's funny, but—it's the exact opposite with Clark. Thinking of him as Superman is sometimes the *only* way to—ah. Cope," Dick says, and turns back to Bruce and Tim. "I want one of those."

"Ah... by 'one of those' do you mean a bone-crushing hug?" Tim turns—

Tim *starts* to turn, but Bruce cups the back of his head and turns him *back*, kissing him softly—a lot.

Dick laughs quietly. "Okay, I hear you, Bruce. One at a time. C'mere, Jay—"

"Yeah, fine, you get the hug. Pussy," Jason says, and pulls Dick into his arms.

"Mmm, pussy. *Someone* had to be in this sausage party."

Jason snorts and bites Dick's jaw. "Does this mean I get to do you on your back one of these days?"

"*Only* if you bend my knees back against my chest and say lots of nasty things while you're at it," Dick says, and bites *Jason's* jaw. "Otherwise, I just won't really *feel* like your bitch."

"I'd like to state for the record that feeling like Jason's bitch is one of those things everyone should experience at least once," Tim says—

"Certainly," Bruce says, and releases Tim *just* enough to stroke the scars on Tim's chest. "You wear it well."

Which... Jason pulls out of the hug and retrieves Tim's knife from a fold of blanket, dancing it over his fingers a little—

"Oh... really, Jay? I mean—seriously?" Dick looks *incredulous*—but not freaked.

"Tim. C'mere."

Tim looks back at him over his shoulder—and narrows his eyes. "Yes, Jay." Tim knee-walks close and sits on his heels. "How do you want me?"

"Jesus, you two. You don't have to—I mean, I have no *idea* what goes on in your *heads* for this—"

"Dick," Bruce says, and reaches out. "Please?"

And Dick actually looks *shocked* that Bruce would want him close, even after all of that, and that fucking *hurts*. And Jason doesn't have to see Bruce to know that it hurts *him* a lot more.

"I—all right," and Dick moves over to sit beside Bruce. The move that leads to Bruce's arm being around Dick's shoulders is as cautious and slow as some kid trying to put the moves on a girl in a movie theater, but Dick sighs for it and turns to kiss the back of Bruce's hand. "Bruce, have you *watched* this before?"

"Yes. And no."

And yeah, of *course* Bruce knows what he's about to do, but Tim still doesn't—

Until Jason flips the knife and offers it to Tim hilt-first.

"Jay. You. Are you—"

"You got the only knife in this room, kid. Tim," Jason says, and cups Tim's face, stroking his sharp little cheekbone with his thumb and thinking fleetingly of that other Tim, and all the ways this couldn't have happened, all the ways he'd made *sure* that he'd never have anything like this—

He doesn't *deserve* this, but he has it, anyway, and he thinks, maybe, that he *had* to live again—if only to make sure he really *understood* Bruce at least a little.

Jason takes a breath and licks his lips. "How do you want *me*."

Tim's eyes are *bright*, almost *shining*, and Jason thinks—

I'm the only one in this room, right now. It doesn't matter what Bruce or Dick say or think, it doesn't matter how much this hurts, it doesn't matter how *scared* I am—

"Just. As you are, Jay," Tim says, and steadies his grip. "Though you should drop your arms."

Jason nods and does it—

And the bite of the blade is deceptively mild on his right pec, almost more of an absence of sensation than anything else, but he also doesn't quite need Dick's gasp to know that Tim is slicing him without hesitation or pause, deft and sure as he goes for a curve—

Break—

And then there's another curve, and he can feel himself spilling, feel it at the base of his dick and somewhere much deeper. Tim has eyes only for the work he's doing, and Jason wants to lick the concentration-line on his forehead, wants to promise Tim everything this means and everything else, *too*—

*Break*, and Tim's going for something between a broken spiral and concentric circles—also broken. And that...

"Were you thinking about this pattern?"

"I was going to suggest something like it for my own skin, but I—it's better for you. It stops and starts, it continues inward much farther than anyone else can go. It—it doesn't end unless you're too weak to make... a jump," Tim says, blushing and licking his lips—

Break—

"I hope. I think—Jay, I—"

"Finish it, Tim. It's—" Jason sighs for the burn, the song of it in his skin, the sting that's making his skin *want* to sweat—

"I love you," Tim says, and it's almost conversational as he finishes the last few curves. "I suppose... I suppose I don't have to worry about you ever not knowing that. Um."

"It'll always be with me," Jason says, and— "I want to hold you."

Tim smiles, showing teeth and looking like a whole lot of what Jason wants in this life. "I think Dick is going to poke you about that."

Dick snorts. "Oh, no. It's *completely* Jason to express a sentiment like that while he's being *sliced open*."

"I've often found Jason's sense of timing... unique," Bruce says, and the smile in his voice is enough to make Dick and Jason laugh—

Tim hums, laughing and something *else* entirely—yeah.

"Do it, Tim."

"Jay," Tim says, swallowing his name like he's swallowing Jason's blood, and the suck makes Jason grunt and *have* to hold Tim against him as the pain sparks and flares, as it rises and *screams* before subsiding again—

And the next suck makes him gasp—

And the next one makes him sigh, and stroke the back of Tim's head—

"Little wing... what's it like? I mean, what—is it turning you on?"

"Right now? It's more of an *emotional* turn-on. Tim's *feeding* on me like the little vampire he was probably born to be, and he's *marked* me, and I..." Jason smiles a little helplessly. "I *belong*."

Tim moans and clutches Jason's sides, hilt of the knife digging in against Jason's ribs a little—

"But—do you *need* that? I mean, is what Bruce and I feel for you—no, I know it's not less *real*, but—"

"I hear you," Jason says, and tugs Tim back, taking a moment to look at his bloody face, his wide, blue eyes, the make-up— "God, you're a beautiful mess, kid."

Tim smiles for him again. "So long as none of you try to stop me from taking the most serious shower of my young life."

"Mm," Bruce says. "First... the cold cream."

"*Definitely* the cold cream," Dick says—

"Be happy we won't put you through a facial, kid," Jason says, swiping blood from Tim's chin and bringing it to his mouth for a quick suck. "It's different, is all. Something just for me and Tim—and maybe I shouldn't have started it, at all—"

"*No*, Jay—"

Jason kisses Tim's forehead—and then gets a little lost in licking the blood off Tim's face—oh, yeah, he was saying something. "I *did* start it, even though I really did mean to train Tim up and go..." Jason shakes his head. "Hell, maybe I needed a Robin, too. Now c'mere and let's finish ruining that gorgeous fucking dress," he says, and pulls Tim closer.

Tim wraps his arms around Jason's neck and rests his head on Jason's shoulder, pressing close carefully enough that there's going to be a perfect imprint of the mark he'd left on the dress. *Perfectly* considerate of the pain—so long as the blood doesn't dry enough for them to stick together.

Dick sighs. "Okay, I'm going with 'freaky but sweet.' Just—*please* don't give Kory any ideas. I don't think I *need* any more scars."

Jason grins. "See, that's the thing, Big Bird. Scars on you are like marking up a work of *art*—"

"Oh, God, don't *start*, little wing—"

"I have to agree," Tim says. "You really are terrifyingly perfect, Dick."

"Augh, no, don't *teach* the kid these things—"

"It was actually somewhat terrifying to be with you as you grew up, Dick," Bruce says, smile still in his voice but just a little more *evil*. "Every time you reached a new milestone of beauty and sexual attractiveness, I would assure myself that you couldn't ever become more so—"

"*Bruce*, I—" And Dick twists up and off the bed, pacing and pretty clearly looking for his clothes. And—

"Heh. Nice blush, Dickie—"

"Nice ass," Tim says—

"*Nice*... is a terribly weak word for the effect *I'm* seeing."

Jason detaches himself from Tim and rolls off the bed, and it's a *good* sign that Dick lets him catch him by the shoulders, but he actually looks a little *distressed*. "Big Bird?"

"I—seriously, stop. People start calling me beautiful and then they're—all over me. Men, women. *Strangers*. And none of them know anything about me, and I have to deal with the fact that—"

"Most of them wouldn't care, yeah, okay, I hear you," Jason says, and squeezes Dick's shoulders. "But *we* care, and you know that."

Dick's laugh is a little cracked. "I—all right, but you're going to have to give me a little *time* for this particular paradigm shift, Jay. I mean, *you* know what it's like—hell, *all* of you should."

And Jason thinks about what it was like to be a pretty, pretty little boy on the street...

Dick never had to deal with *that*—though Jason's willing to bet that time Dick had spent in a group home before all the paperwork had gone through hadn't been all that fun.

Still... "You can't tell me the other Titans—"

"I know them, and they know *me*—and possibly I wouldn't have spent *quite* as much time figuring out ways to make them all up if I didn't have quite as many issues as I do," Dick says, and smiles ruefully. "Just—not that."

Jason nods, and doesn't say word one about the question in his head. *That* question—the one that revolves around the fact that Dick probably *wouldn't* have grown up with so many issues if Bruce *had* let Dick see some of that honest appreciation—

Or if Bruce hadn't thrown Dick into the deep end with all those society parties and undercover assignments which had, at their base, the fact that Dick really was *just* that pretty. Jason pulls Dick in for another hug—

"Oh, God, you're *bleeding* on me—"

"Suck it *up*."

"Seriously, it's not supposed to count as a *good* date if the water runs pink in the shower afterwards, Jay—"

"Yeah, how's it working trying to teach Kory *that* one?"

Dick punches him lightly in the gut. "Asshole. I should've thrown you *off* that train—"

"I would've been deeply upset," Bruce says, mildly.

"Possibly heartbroken," Tim says.

"You would've gotten *over* it," Dick says, and pulls back again. "Alternately, I would've learned how to curse every other sentence and walk around like I *knew* everyone in a given room was checking out my panty-clad ass."

"They *so* were—but I'm not going there, because I'm a totally sensitive and loving younger brother who's also taller than you will ever, ever be."

Dick goes for another punch—

Jason catches Dick's arm and goes to twist it behind Dick's back—

Dick twists *further* and yanks—

Jason sweeps—

Dick *leaps*—

Jason moves in double-time for the grapple, and Dick lets him do it—just enough that Dick can trip him up with those legs which aren't just fucking *sculpted*, but are strong as hell—

But Jason can pull Dick down *with* him, and the carpeting in here is a lot more forgiving than the mats—

"I find myself wishing for oil," Tim says—

Bruce hums. "I find myself wishing I had more cameras placed in this room."

Dick chokes on a laugh, which is enough to let Jason flip him onto his back—

And get tossed.

"I'm not *that* easy, little wing—"

"You're not easy at *all*," Jason says, *while* pouncing—

Dick rolls, and Jason catches his arm, making a moderately awkward pin out of basically *nothing*, which—

"Hey, what's up?"

"You, on my *back*," Dick says, and spits out a little carpet. "Also, I just had the terrifying image of Alfred coming in to scold us for horsing around in the manor—"

*Tim* chokes, which—gah. Yeah.

"Okay, point," Jason says, rolling off and pushing a hand through his hair. Bruce and Tim are sitting on their heels at the edge of the bed, Bruce behind and just a little to the right—and resting a comfortable-looking hand on Tim's shoulder.

Tim looks moderately disappointed and *avid*, Bruce just looks very, very happy. And—

"You know we have to get a real spar in, Dick."

"Mmm. I agree wholeheartedly. I—I think what I'm going to do is go back to New York and tie up a few loose ends, and then come back here so I can beat and bend and fold and spindle Tim into as much of an acrobat as I can make him."

"Oh," and Tim sounds wondering and pleased. "Yes, Dick?"

Dick turns and grins up at him. "You're gonna *fly*, little brother."

"But *first*? You're going to spend some quality time wondering if Dick maybe just wants you to remove your sac entirely," Jason says, making a cup of his hand and *twisting* it.

Tim winces—

"I think I've proven that flexibility doesn't have to come at the cost of *masculinity*."

Jason snorts. "Dick, you're about as masculine as the panties Bruce has stuffed under his pillow."

Dick chokes again—

"Jay. You *told*," Bruce says, and the exaggerated disappointment is pure *Brucie*—

"God, *spare* us, I'll be good, I swear—"

"You're *always* good, sport. Ha, ha, ha..."

Jason winces hard and bangs his head against the floor a couple-few times. "Right, okay, *now* it's time for patrol. Before my dick crawls back into my *body*."

Dick sits up. "Really *yes*. Do you want to *traumatize* Tim?"

"Actually, I'm used to that voice from all the parties. It's a bit disconcerting to hear it in *this* context, but I think I can survive—"

Bruce punches Tim's shoulder lightly. "*That's* the ticket, tiger. We're going to be *good* friends, I can tell."

"All right, no, that's *horrid*," Tim says, and edges away from Bruce—

Jason snickers. "You're just gonna encourage him, baby bro."

"Haa. You kids are just *fabulous*—"

Dick groans. "Someone gag him *with* the panties—"

"*Kinky*," Bruce says, and yes, actually *waggles* his eyebrows at Dick.

"Really, that's—I mean I can see how you're doing that with your voice, but the *personality* is... unique," Tim says, getting that thoughtful look that always makes Jason want to put a scalpel in his hand and unleash him on an unsuspecting populace—

"I'm sure I don't know *what* you're talking about, tiger. I'm just a regular *guy*..."

Tim shudders, but then pulls on a look of determination, turning to face Bruce. "Really, Bruce—or... I suppose I should call you 'Brucie—'"

"That's my name, ha, ha—"

"Stop that. I'm just saying—where do you *get* this? I mean, it could be explained to a certain extent by the sort of people who attend the assorted parties and charity balls, but you've had this persona for *years*. You've honed it, perfected it—even your facial expressions are different."

Bruce—*not* Brucie—raises an eyebrow and traces a line down Tim's cheek to the corner of his mouth. "Personae can be useful in a number of security-related ways, Tim. Are you thinking of developing one of your own?"

"Oh, thank God, he's done," Dick says, rolling to his feet and grabbing his hair tie from the edge of the bed.

Jason stands up, too, and goes looking for his shorts and underwear—

"I... well. I suppose it's possible that I *should*, but—I haven't thought about it."

Bruce nods. "You've attended public school all your life, due to your parents' egalitarianism. I actually discussed the matter once with your father—or, to be more accurate, 'Brucie' did. Before he fled in disgust, he made it clear that he wanted to protect you from people like me."

"So... you picked this up in your schooling?"

"To quite a large extent. It's fascinating how few people remember the quiet, broody, and rather morbid teenager I used to be," Bruce says, tapping Tim's mouth with his fingers before moving to retrieve his own clothes.

"Do you think I'll be hampered by the fact that I wasn't steeped in an environment like the one you were in?" 

"I think... that you'll learn to develop personae of your own. It is, after all, only a matter of observation and will—and you're quite strong in both respects."

Tim nods and slips off the bed, stepping back into the heels and straightening his dress.

Jason stretches. "Shower in the Cave?"

"Probably the fastest way, little wing. We'll torture Tim with the facial cleanser and the cold cream first," Dick says, and heads for the door.

Jason follows, pushing Tim in front of him for the *sole* purpose of watching him walk in the heels. He's got the one foot in front of the other thing down, but he's not really giving it all he's got. "Work those hips a little, kid."

"I suppose it was too much to hope for that the hazing would be over—"

"*Really* yes," Dick says, turning and walking backwards. "*Come* to me, little brother."

Tim snorts and tries a little hip action. It's wobbly enough that Tim looks a little drunk, but it's still *really* nice to see from the back.

Jason gooses Tim a little—

Tim manages *not* to trip, but it's a near thing.

"You *really* should've seen that coming, kid."

Dick sighs. "It's true. You've got to be prepared for *anything* out there."

"I don't think I want to hear any stories about what the two of you put up with from the criminal element with regards to the—panties."

Dick snorts. "Oh, you really, really don't. We'll tell you *anyway*, but—good instincts!"

"Uh, *huh*—*gah*—" *That* was a goose from *Bruce*—

"I feel quite sure that you should've seen that coming, Jay."

Dick snickers.

Tim hums.

Jason *sighs*. "Okay, fine, I deserved that. But you're still all assholes."

"And sore ones, at that," Tim says, and Dick finishes the job of making Tim's hair look like the nest of an epileptic bird with a *thorough* ruffle.

Bruce rests one hand at the small of Jason's back.

Jason takes a deep breath and goes with it.


	24. Chapter 24

He spends a good chunk of the next week watching Dick take all of Tim's potential and turn it into the kind of skills that will make Tim's Robin into something truly special.

The jealousy is there for it, but Jason's keeping it mostly under control—with the help of the healing wound on his chest and the way Tim looks at him, the way it's still different from the way he looks at Bruce and Dick and, perhaps, always will be.

He spars with Bruce *and* Dick, using most of the tricks he knows and knowing that *all* of them are learning from him in ways he wouldn't have been able to stand... not very long ago, at all.

On one *particular* night, he climbs into Tim's bedroom only to find Dick there ahead of him, a feverish light in his eyes as he teaches Tim the kind of stretches that he probably won't *need* on the street nine point nine nine nine times out of ten, but which make Dick hungry as hell and Jason fucking *concur*.

They wind up gagging Tim for the ninety or so minutes of fucking around that *follow* the stretching, and after that Tim talks Dick down off the ledge of guilt for keeping him up—heh—so late.

It's Bruce on another night, and the only thing that had stopped *Jason* from needing a gag was the way that Tim was there beneath him, bent in half and ready for every kiss, every *cry* as Bruce worked his way inside Jason—

Gauntlets on Jason's hips and Bruce's hot mouth on the back of Jason's neck—

Tim clenching and holding him and Tim's eyes lasered in on his own—

Yeah.

Right now, Dick is guiding Tim through a routine on the pommel horse *neither* Bruce nor Jason could ever have taught him—

Right now, the Drakes are boarding a plane to Port-au-Prince—

Right now, Bruce is on his way to the airport for his own trip, and Tim doesn't know a thing. *Dick* knows that Bruce's trip is Mission-related, but he doesn't know the whole story.

Jason doesn't *want* to say a word, and he'd been going with the idea that he wouldn't ever have to, but that's just not true. It's—

It's an ache in the wound on his chest and it's a very particular itch under his skin. He can't keep this from Tim.

Jason walks over and claps Dick on the shoulder.

Dick raises an eyebrow. "What is it? He's got a good rhythm going."

"Call it, anyway. There's something he needs to know."

Dick frowns and nods. "Time."

Tim twists and springs into a dismount. Not as spectacular as Dick, but really pretty much perfect—focus.

"Tim... you know Bruce is going out of town."

"Yes. I... *is* it business?"

"And personal," Jason says, fighting back the urge to grit his teeth and surrendering to the one that lets him push a hand back through his hair. "He's following your parents to Haiti."

Tim blinks—

"Wait, why?" And Dick is staring hard. "Is there—they're not involved in anything shady, are they?"

"My *parents*?"

"Nothing like that," Jason says, raising his hands and making a little pushing motion. "I—I've been trying to come up with a way to say this, Tim, and—no. I've spent a lot of time debating whether or not to say it at *all*, and mostly going with the idea that I wouldn't."

Tim frowns. "I—what. I don't understand, Jay."

"Neither do I," Dick says, and his expression is all about being ready, willing, and able to *drag* the information out of Jason if he has to.

Right. "In my world, something really nasty went down with your parents when they went to Haiti. They were kidnapped—"

"No. *No*. Jay, why didn't you tell me—"

"Easy, kid—"

"*No*, *not* easy. Jay, what were you—how *could* you—"

"Because I told *Bruce*, and that's why he's following your parents. There was nothing you could've done to stop your parents without blowing a whole *lot* of secrets," Jason says, and feels like approximately nineteen *different* kinds of ass, because it's not the truth. It's just—

And the look of *suspicion* on Tim's face really fucking says it all.

"Tim—"

"You don't *want* Bruce to save them—"

"*Tim*," and Dick rests a hand on Tim's shoulder—

Tim twists away from it and stalks closer to Jason. "You—you want Bruce to *fail*, Jason."

Jason, not Jay. Fuck— "They're your parents, Tim, and I *know* you care about them, that you love them—"

"What made you tell Bruce? How much guilt did it *take*?"

Jason closes his eyes for a moment. "Call it 'enough,' Tim. There *isn't* anything you could've done but worry yourself sick about it—"

"And *maybe* if that was your *actual* reasoning I'd feel a little less like *castrating* you right now. I—" Tim cuts himself off and growls. "When does it happen."

"I don't know," Jason says, quiet and honest—

"Jason—"

"I *don't* know, Tim," and Jason raises his hands again. "The information I had was spotty and incomplete. I just knew that it would be the Haiti trip, and that it would be happening right about now—"

"What happened. What happened to them in *your* universe?" And there's fear in Tim's voice, but it's almost buried under the anger— "God, I could've—something. Laced their food with ipecac. Hidden their traveler's checks. Manipulated them into having one. One of their *fights*—"

Jason winces. Dick looks both thoughtful and *freaked*—

"*Dammit*, Jason, what *happened*—"

"Your mother was killed. Your father wound up in a coma."

Tim makes a strangled noise—and punches Jason in the gut.

Jason lets it land, coughing out his air—

And Tim walks away, heading for the stairs. Fuck, fuck—

And fuck some more. He could've let it lie. He could've—

There *have* been a lot of kidnappings of rich White tourists in the Caribbean lately, and Jason could've spun it as Bruce just being extra cautious with someone he cares about—

Except that he *couldn't* have done that, because even *with* Tim walking away and Dick giving him the fucking hairy eyeball—

He feels better, inside and out.

Jason stands up straight and takes a deep breath. "Go after him, Dick. Please."

"Yeah, I—one thing, Jay. I need to know one thing—"

"When the bad shit went down in my universe, Tim wound up living *here*, with Bruce. He got the lion's share of his training done and was street-ready a whole fuck of a lot faster—"

"Jesus fucking—*Jay*—"

"They got *closer*, and learned how to take care of each other—" Jason cuts himself off and sighs. "When I realized that they didn't *need* this fucking tragedy in order to make that happen, and when I realized that I wasn't anywhere fucking *near* cold-blooded enough—fuck, Dick, it doesn't matter. I want Tim out of that goddamned *house*."

"Not like *this*," Dick says, grabbing Jason's shoulders and shaking him a little. "You don't have to *be* an orphan to be one of us—"

"But we *both* know that it helps. Go *after* him, Big Bird—"

Alarm.

Specifically, the *Arkham* alarm—

"Mother*fuck*." Jason makes it to the console before Dick does and calls up the views of Arkham from all the cameras Bruce has planted over the years. Nothing, nothing, nothing—and a whole fuck of a lot of smoke coming from a gaping hole in the outer wall.

"Oh, Jesus, no—"

"Get the *kid*, Dick—I've got this."

"You *know* Bruce is going to make Alfred turn around and come right back—"

"*Fuck*—"

"Triage conditions—"

"But *we're* here. I—" Jason puts his comm in. "J to B, come in."

Nothing.

"J to B, come *in*—"

"All right, I'm going after Tim to tell him not to do anything stupid. You—raise Bruce however you can *while* finding out who got out."

Jason nods and waves him off, trying to *think*. Gordon won't be putting up the signal for at least another four hours—sundown.

Most of their channels for information just *won't* be functioning until then, but—

He can go right to the source. It's possible—and way too fucking *probable*—that no one will want to tell 'J' anything at all, but.

He can make it happen.

Jason gets changed while he works on raising Bruce, and. He knows it's Two-Face. Just—going by his *very* clear memories of Arkham's layout in this time period, the blast would've taken out a wall of one of the common areas, just beyond the dispensary for those patients who've been acting sane enough to *get* time in a common area—

It would be wrong to assume that there's only one escapee, yeah, but whoever *else* got out—Two-Face has to be one of them. It's the only thing that makes sense, and it'll make it even harder to get Bruce to leave the city.

Fuck, fuck, and fuck some more. Jason gums down the mask and grabs one of Bruce's bikes. Forty minutes to Arkham, and then fuck only knows how long to get answers—

One step at a time.

Bruce contacts *him* while he's looking for a way to sneak past the chaos—and the Staties—and far enough into Arkham to *get* some answers—

"J. Where are you."

"Arkham, B. Where are *you*—"

"The Cave—"

"Get *out* and get the kid's parents. N and I have *got* this—"

"That's *not* the protocol—"

"It *wasn't* the protocol, but it is now," Jason says, and quick-steps up to the two Staties guarding Arkham's new exit—the ones conveniently looking for people trying to get *out*—and drops them as gently as he can.

Bruce is breathing silently in his ear.

"Fucking *go*, B—"

"Jay. Did you know—"

"Not this, and *not* now. I know—fuck, this is bad, yeah, but I swear on a stack that I knew nothing about an escape going down *now*."

"All right. I'll go."

"*Thank* you," Jason says, and looks around the rubble. "J out." There's blood on the floor and blood on the *walls*, and the only possible good thing about this is that it all *probably* belongs to inmates.

Jason calls up the—old—Arkham map in his head and starts moving. The quiet is the same quiet you can find after any major disaster, creepy and thick and designed to make the pound of your own heart seem obvious and horrible, like maybe anything you do will call *more* disaster out of somewhere. He heads for the offices as quickly as he can, because the people here have had nearly an hour to lock things down, and even the people unlucky—or crazy—enough to work at Arkham can manage *that*.

The quiet gets broken into messy shards the closer he gets to the admin offices—

Argument.

Between one of the Staties and the director by the sound of it, and—fine.

Jason gives up on stealth and walks in—

"Who the *hell* are you?" And that's the Statie—high rank, judging by the uniform, the age, and the look of terminal constipation—

And the director scowls at the Statie *exactly* like he's pissed at the guy for usurping the director's authority. In the end, *every* clusterfuck is ultimately the same.

"You can call me J. Batman sent me. Who's out?"

"Now, you listen to me, kid—"

Jason catches the wrist of the Statie—conveniently in reach from all the pointing and jabbing at his fucking chest—and twists it around behind the guy's back, lifting just high and hard enough to make his point. "There's no time for this. Who's *out*?"

The Statie grunts and tries sending an elbow into Jason's gut, and maybe it's not the *best* solution to send the guy flying into the painful-looking chairs in front of the director's desk, but it works well *enough*.

And it makes the corners of the director's mouth twitch in an abortive little smile.

*Right*. Jason grabs the guy by his shirt and lifts him. "Who. Is. Out."

"Ah—Harvey Dent. And the Isley woman. There appears to be—oh, dear."

That was for one of Jason's shuriken knocking the gun out of the Statie's hand. "There appears to be *what*?"

"I—there was a car waiting for Dent. I don't know about Isley. Um. The bomb was placed outside the building—"

"And you're *sure* everyone else is locked down?"

The director has the nerve to look *affronted*, so Jason gives him a good shake, knocking his glasses askew— "Yes! I'm sure!"

Jason drops the guy and spares one last look for the Statie, who's currently holding his bleeding hand and staring murder at Jason. "We're going to be looking into Two-Face's associates," Jason says, and pulls his gloves on a little tighter. "You can waste your time looking for proof that Two-Face and Ivy were working together, or you can go with the *fact* that this was Two-Face's escape plan and no one else's."

"Vigilante *scum*—"

"Yeah, that's me. And your guys? Are just taking a little nap. They'll be fine."

"You listen to me, punk—"

"Fuck you *very* much," and Jason heads out. There's no time for anything else, and—

Christ. Two-Face in a car. He *is* heading for Gotham, but beyond that...

And Ivy, too. Fucking wonderful.

Jason walks *faster*, calling in once he's on the bike. "N, come in."

"I'm here, and I've got R scanning police communications. B is gone."

"It's Ivy *and* Two-Face. Two-Face had an accomplice to plant the bomb and drive him out of here."

"Christ. No way we catch the guy before he gets back here, then. He's probably *already* here."

Jason hits the highway. "Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll make enough noise in midtown traffic to get an angry mob after his psycho ass."

"Yeah, and maybe I'll *grow* wings. You have a plan, yet?"

"Two-Face was *supposed* to break out months back, N. At the time, he was gunning *specifically* for B, and he was using explosives all over the city."

"Damn, damn—anything else?"

"Just that you and B *couldn't* take him alone—it's kind of how R introduced himself."

Dick whistles. "Well—all right. *Are* we bringing him out with us?"

Yes. No. Yes, it'll take his mind off his parents. No, because if Two-Face gets even a *little* piece of the kid, I'll *have* to kill him— "Yeah, I think we are. Limited, monitored—"

"And take no chances. I *can* call the Titans in on this."

"Leave it for now. I'm heading right into Gotham to start pounding on people."

"We'll join you once we have a read on the cops—and we *all* go when Gordon calls."

"So long as he doesn't pull a gun on me, I'm fine with that."

"*What*?"

"Nothing, N. Just a Statie being an ass about things. Anything else?"

"No."

"Then J out."

The nice thing about Gotham—

Okay, the really *fucked* thing about Gotham is that there's always someone who needs to get beaten, day or night. It probably drives Bruce straight up a wall to think about all the nasty shit that goes down while the Bat's in its Cave, but he's not thinking about Bruce right now.

If he *was*, he'd be thinking too hard about the fact that he seriously has no idea whether or not he wants Bruce to succeed in pulling the Drakes out of the fire. On the one hand, it would ease things for Tim a *lot*—and possibly save Jason's whole fucking *relationship*—

And there's a lot of fucking queasy in *that*—

On the other hand, they really *are* seriously useless fucking people, and they *all* need Tim to have a lot more freedom than he has right now. And—

Wouldn't Tim have to forgive him? Isn't that the *definition* of belonging to somebody?

("I'm sorry, Jay. I know now that I should've told you about your father—")

Fucking Two-Face.

Fucking *Bruce*, and what if Bruce's fucking *instinctive* response to that alarm had knocked his schedule around enough that he was too late?

Two-Face's fault or his own?

And so he's not *thinking* about that when he rolls up on the street corner his very useful snitch—Possum Jellicoe—calls home, when he steps off the bike and ignores the shouts and stares to shove Possum into an alley—

"Jesus, J, what are you *doing*? They're all going to know—"

"They already *do* know, you piece of shit. But, since you're *worried*..."

"Oh, God, oh fuck, *don't*—"

The knee to the groin gets Possum to scream impressively, and Jason can *feel* his crowd of spectators melting away at speed—

Possum coughs and moans, and moans louder when Jason picks him up and slams him against the wall—

"What the fuck did I do to *you*?"

"I'll come up with something. What's the word?"

"I don't—"

"Listen to me, Possum. I made you scream loud enough that no one who sees you walk out of here after me will assume you *just* punked out. In other words? I did you a favor. The *next* hurt I give you? Will be for *my* benefit."

Possum shivers and scowls. "The freaks are out, and everybody mostly wants to stay out of their way."

"Mostly?"

"I heard some of the young bloods talking about how the people who work for the freaks always make big money, how it's just a matter of getting out while you're still breathing."

Stupid, stupid— "Where'd they go?"

"I *don't* know—but if *you* don't know the bars where these people hang out, then you don't belong in this city."

Jason shows his teeth and shakes his head. "Attitude from you? That's *really* how you want to play it?"

The scowl lasts for another beat, another—and gets replaced with something Jason can only describe as a terrified pout. "Markie's on Eighth—"

"And Lucy's on Ninetieth, yeah, I know. What *else*?"

"That's all I know! It's too early for anything else. Maybe later, once the freaks start *doing* things—"

Jason drops Possum and walks. The bars won't be any good this time of day, but there are a few more contacts he can talk to. He—

Kid, running two fingers along the bike.

"You don't wanna do that, kid—"

The kid—girl, maybe eleven, jumps back and stares at him with saucer eyes. "You're *not* Batman."

"Nope. But he lets me play with his toys, sometimes," Jason says, getting on the bike and grabbing the helmet. "The thing is, though?"

The girl nods and keeps staring.

"Some of his toys *bite*," and Jason drags a finger over the hidden catch that releases eight shuriken, four on each side, all ready to be tossed.

"Oh! Man, that's fucked *up*."

Jason grins, pushes the shuriken back into their compartments, and puts on the helmet. "Very. Remember that," and he's off, not really letting himself wonder what happens when that little girl—very, very carefully—tries to boost the tires off another Batmobile—

La la la and also no.

His other contacts have nothing for him, so Jason spends a little time cruising Second Avenue, Twenty-second street, Castor street down by the waterfront—a whole lot of nothing.

And what the hell is he going to do about *Ivy*? Dick almost certainly has Tim going over greenhouses and plant stores all around the city, but they're probably going to have to *ignore* Ivy until she does something they *can't* ignore.

Two-Face has always been the deadlier of the two just in *general*, since he tends to favor guns over man-eating plants and weird toxins—*and* he has a bomber on his side. Shit, he should've— "J to N—"

"We're on our way out. Got anything?"

"What did you find about bombers?"

"Bupkis," Dick says, and there's the growl of a motorcycle. "Everybody with that kind of knowledge and experience that we *know* about is either locked down or presumably out of state."

"Presumably?"

"No sign of them for at least ten months," Tim says, and his voice is cold and professional. "I memorized the most likely names and stats."

"Good boy," Jason says, before he can think—

Right now he doesn't have the *right*, and—

"Is the signal on yet?"

"That's a big yes, Big Bird. Am I heading straight there, or...?"

"What's your twenty?"

"I'm about twenty-five minutes out from Central—"

"Then head straight there," Dick says, and the bike roars. "We're not going to take the safest possible ride."

"Just don't get—" My boy killed. Fuck. "You know what I'm saying, J out."

The ride to Central is a little like going back in time. *More*. Whenever the signal's on, people drive a little slower, and there are always gawkers, people who can tell a Bat-vehicle from the other ones on the road, people who get into *accidents* because they were busy staring up at the sky—

Daytime people on their way home, for the most part—because when the night people act like that, they tend to have horrible things happen to them. You *can't* be too stupid to live in Gotham when the sun goes down.

It winds up taking nearly *thirty*-five minutes to get to Central, and it's not a shock to see Dick and Tim flying in from the north-east while he flies in from the south.

As always, it feels *different* to land on this rooftop, the part of him which will always *be* a little punk jittering back up to life because this is the belly of the fucking *beast*, the road to group homes and foster parents who'll treat you like an ashtray—or a sex toy—

He's grown now, and Gordon has proved *twice* that he'll let kids run free—so long as there's a crazy man in tights to follow 'em around.

"A full house," Gordon says, stepping out from the deep shadow thrown by the flood light. "I can't say I'm not grateful—where's Batman?"

"Out of the country," Dick says in the Nightwing voice, and steps out of his own shadow—

"And he can't get back?"

"Not yet," Jason says, sucking it up and stepping out—

"Holy..." Gordon steps back and shakes his head like a dog. "Explanation. *Now*."

"When Two-Face and Ivy are back inside," Dick says, raising his hands, and tugging Tim into the light. "I promise."

Gordon frowns hard and looks back and forth between Jason and Tim. After a moment, he sighs and hands Dick a folder. "Robin. Nice to see you... again."

"Commissioner," Tim says, and nods.

"You... what do I call you?"

"I just go by J," Jason says, and offers his hand.

Gordon takes it and squeezes, searching Jason's face like the cop he is and seeing—

Probably a *fuck* of a lot more than Jason is remotely comfortable with.

"Jay," Gordon says, low and deliberate in the mistake. "You've been working here for months."

Jason nods—

Gordon grunts and releases his hand. "Here's hoping you don't do all your thinking with a knife. That's all we have, Nightwing. The tech boys and girls say they'll need at least another day or two to come up with something substantive about the bomb used at Arkham, and the only thing our witness has to say about the car tearing away from that benighted place is that it was an older sedan. What have you boys come up with?"

Boys, right. "No sign—yet—that Ivy and Two-Face are working together, as opposed to Ivy just taking the chance to get out," Jason says, and crosses his arms over his chest. "The word on the street is that most everyone plans to lie low until there's some sign of what the freaks plan on doing."

Gordon nods and pulls out a cigar.

Dick touches Tim's shoulder, and Tim takes another step closer. "We're looking into known bombers and felons with demolitions experience tonight. We—ah. We think it will probably be more useful than going after our usual contacts."

"And what contacts do *you*—have." Gordon sighs again and lights the cigar. "Strike that one from the record, Robin."

"Noted."

"Anything else for me?"

"We have some—seriously hazy—information that Two-Face might've tried to do this some months back. You should get your own people to Arkham as soon as possible," Jason says—

"Why? Because the State Bears don't like you very much?"

"Because this is outside their range of experience," Dick says, and hands the folder back. "We *don't* have any word suggesting this was an inside job, but your people know the Arkham employees about as well as anyone else does. They can ferret out the squirrelly ones."

"'Squirrelly.' Right—and noted, as well. I won't hold you up. Help us get these people back inside where they belong and maybe I forget about the fact that I'm seeing things I'm not supposed to see," Gordon says, but they're already flying.

It fucking *tears* something that Tim takes off with Dick, but he can't say that it's a surprise, and Jason can damned well keep his game face on when Tim starts reading off names and addresses for his half of the list of bombers in that ice-cold voice.

When all else fails, there will *always* be the Mission.

It only takes an hour to track down the first one, because he's in the process of killing himself with smack in an SRO not far from his last legitimate residence.

The next one's pissed-off former landlady directs him to prostitutes who flirt and tell him stories about a john who spouted off about chemistry for hours at a time—and who had bragged about a job with a lab in Ottawa before disappearing from their lives.

The *next* one is an interesting mystery, as her last known residence had burned to the foundations three months ago, and is still a blackened ruin filled with debris and the kinds of sad and awful things you always find in places like that. Half-melted dolls, swollen and charred photo albums, mattresses filled with rats.

An hour cajoling the neighbors on the left to talk tells him that there was one fatality—the old woman who'd lived on the top floor for forty-some years went down to smoke inhalation—and that the fire investigators had, in fact, been using the word arson.

None of them knew anything about the woman—Traci Kerns—he was looking for, other than that she'd seemed to keep to herself. The neighbors on the right have nothing else for him—except for a third floor peeping Tom who still has his telescope aimed at the place where the building used to be.

Jason breaks his nose and gets a lot of cursing. Jason *thinks* about breaking a few other things—and then yanks the telescope off the tripod and dangles it out the window.

*That* gets him the fact that Kerns had left home that afternoon with an overstuffed suitcase and had never come back. She'd also never brought home a lover—male *or* female—and periodically ground up rat poison with cereal for the pigeons.

Very nice, and extremely possible.

He calls it in to Dick and Tim—who are getting a whole lot of nothing on their own search—and then gets stuck beating on robbers, *two* muggers, and drug dealers who are being too blatant for him to cope with on his way to looking for the last guy.

It eats up too much time, and there's an empty space (inside) behind him where Tim should be, which—

He's been working the city for *weeks* without Tim, and he'd fucking *dealt* with the fact that Tim would *be* working with Bruce more often than not when he *did* go out—

And yeah, he'd fucked up. *Hard*.

Tracking down the last guy leads him to a lot of illegal gambling, three different enforcers who get their kneecaps shattered with their own clubs and baseball bats, and the fact—which will probably always be unprovable—that his target is rotting in the river. Jason beats on the killer enough to ensure him a good, long stay in the hospital—and then it's sunrise and Dick is calling off the hunt for the night.

Jason heads back in and spends some time calling up the official reports on the apartment fire. It *wasn't* a bomb, but there had been several containers of accelerant stashed around the building that had gone *up* like bombs while the firefighters were trying to put the place out. Several of *them* had gotten injured, and the arson squad had teamed up with homicide to try to track Kerns down.

The woman had no family, had managed to work in an accounting office for six years without confiding anything deeper than a love for turkey wraps with any of her co-workers, and... that's it.

Except for a sealed juvenile record that the cops were still trying to get *un*sealed. Happily, Bruce has had a backdoor for that kind of thing for years, and—

Yeah. *Lots* of fires, including one that had taken out her last foster home entirely. Kerns had spent two years in Bofford, and had been paroled instead of sent to big girl prison because she'd agreed to enlist—

Where she'd been promptly assigned to a demolitions unit, because sometimes the military is *just* that bright. Still, she had a clean record *there*, and had gotten an honorable discharge after doing her court-mandated time. She's even a veteran.

Dick had come in while Jason was searching and reading, and Jason leans back in Bruce's chair to let Dick scroll around and catch up—

"You like her."

"If nothing else, she's a sociopath firebug who'll kill someone *else* soon enough," Jason says, and fights back a yawn.

"Yeah. I like her, too. The *question* is how we find her. I don't suppose there's anything in the Arkham visitor logs?"

"Zip. We need Two-Face's mail."

Dick doesn't bother to hide his own yawn. "We'll head in tomorrow. Tim did good tonight."

Jason nods and closes his eyes for a minute.

"He's—I don't know him as well as you do, but I think he might be more hurt than pissed, Jay."

"Fuck."

"Yeah," Dick says, and rests a hand on Jason's shoulder. "You *know* that even if his parents are completely awful—I mean, *your* parents—"

"Got me killed. After the first set got me selling my ass. And yeah, I'm still twisted up about the whole fucking crowd of them, and I would've *damaged* anyone who hurt them," and Jason bangs his head against the back of the chair a few times. "Sometimes I stop thinking about Tim as a person because I'm too busy thinking of him as a series of fucking incredible potentialities—"

"He's a *kid*—"

"I *know*—I know. And I have no idea how to apologize."

Dick sighs and crouches by the chair. "Start by meaning it."

"Fuck, make it easy, why don't you? I *do* mean it—for hurting him, anyway—"

"Do you, Jay?"

"Jesus, Dick—"

"I'm serious," Dick says, looking up at him—into him. "Because I think you've been maybe going with the idea of 'that which doesn't kill Tim...' Etcetera."

Jason—grunts. "Okay, maybe—a lot. Fucking—I just didn't want him to go down under any of the shocks that nearly took *me* out of the game too many times. I wanted him hard, ready, *sure*—"

"Well, he was all of the above *tonight*. *Too* hard, maybe. We were in the middle of a bunch of bikers up from Pennsylvania pulling a train on a couple of waitresses at a bar. And—"

"What did he do?"

"Two of them are missing *eyelids*, Jay. One on the left, one on the right."

Jason blinks. "That's pretty... original, actually."

"And *why* did I know that you would see it that way? They might wind up losing the *vision* in those eyes—"

"And then again they might *not*. He didn't kill anybody and he knew exactly what he was doing at all times. Right?"

Dick nods, looking troubled.

"Big Bird—"

"*You* at least would get angry, *feel* something—"

"He feels a *lot*, Dick—"

"For you, and for Bruce, and for me... and, apparently, for his parents," Dick says, and shakes his head. "I think he could happily tell the rest of the world to fuck *right* off."

Which... "Is that so bad?"

"Are you *serious*?"

Jason spins the chair enough to face Dick. "Think about it, Big Bird. Yeah, okay, so maybe it's a little problematic that he doesn't have a big, bleeding heart like the rest of us, but he's never going to *slip*—because he throws all of himself into *us*, and he'll do anything and *everything* to stay right *with* us."

Dick's frowning pretty hard— "I don't think it's supposed to *work* that way, little wing."

"Yeah, well, maybe his parents should've given the kid a hug or two way back when. If they had, though... you might not have had anyone watching your back tonight."

"Jay—"

"So yeah, maybe I'm fucking *grateful* that his parents were so damned useless, because I *like* him the way he is. I don't mind you and Bruce softening him up a little bit—it's probably good for him. But I'm *never* gonna get on his ass for being a cold little bastard, and I don't think you should, either."

"You like him just the way he is. Even though he's—" Dick takes a deep breath and takes out the tie, pushing a hand back through his hair. "*Especially* because he's so dangerous."

"Yeah. I just need him to forgive my ass."

"Jay... the way he is..."

Jason squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, opens them again and focuses on Dick. "Say it."

"I—you *do* know him better than I do, but I think, maybe... there's no getting back from this. Not all the way."

"You think he's never going to trust me again."

Dick nods.

"Yeah, well... he never, ever should have. And I'm not being flip or... whatever. I stuffed everything I knew about his parents down and decided not to think about it. One great big fucking lie of omission, and I'm pretty fucking sure that the only reason I'm upset about it is because *he* is. Fuck, Dick, it felt good to get it off my chest, but even that was just my own shit, my own fucking *weakness* and inability to live with another damned secret. No, he shouldn't trust me, at all."

"What about me, little wing? Should *I* trust you? Hell, what about Bruce?"

"*You*... should trust me to keep fucking up in one way or another as I stagger around trying to figure out who, exactly, I *am*. And I think you know how that works."

"I..." Dick knocks his forehead against Jason's thigh a few times.

"What is it?"

"I knew there was something wrong with Roy. I knew when he started losing it after Ollie disappeared on his little road trip with Hal, and I knew when the *quality* of him losing it changed. I never would've guessed that it was drugs, but—no, that's just it. I didn't *let* myself guess about Roy, in any way, because I was too screwed up over Bruce. I just kept... pushing it aside, again and again, promising myself that if Roy ever messed up out there in a big *enough* way I would say something."

"And then, maybe, making new excuses for not doing it."

Dick nods.

"Dick, I'm not gonna tell you that's not fucked up, but hell, there's a reason I never tried to get closer to the Titans. Being on a team is just like having a *lot* of partners, and it was tough enough for me just having one," Jason says, and curls a lock of Dick's hair around his finger. "Maybe one day you should confess to Roy, but I'm willing to bet he'll just smack you around for trying to take responsibility for his own fuck up."

"The Titans taught me how to be a friend to someone other than Bruce, but sometimes I think I didn't learn the lesson all that well, little wing."

"Sometimes I think we have to relearn that stuff with every person we meet, and that we have to do it every *day*."

Dick groans. "Is it too late for me to be a hermit?"

Jason smiles ruefully. "Yeah, pretty much. Brother."

Dick smiles back at him and rests a hand on Jason's knee. "Brother. And... you know, I was actually on my way *back* here with him, tonight. That's what took me so long. I was just driving him here, and *not* because I'd forgotten he was there."

"He belongs here, Dick. He just—he does."

Dick nods. "Are you going to him tonight?"

"I want to, but... no. I'm giving him space."

Dick squeezes Jason's knee. "Probably wise. And I—look, I know you have a lot of reasons for not wanting to stay here—"

Jason shakes his head. "I'm too fucked up to drive right now. I—I'll sleep here."

Dick grins. "Then can I ask you to stay in my room, tonight? I need company to crash in that museum."

"You could just go to Bruce's room, Dick. Or one of the other six thousand bedrooms in this place—"

"Bruce isn't here. And Alfred brought all my *things* to that room. C'mon, Jay, *indulge* my issues."

Which is how he winds up staring up at a *different* ceiling with an incredibly limber man wrapped most of the way around him and snoring, a little. It really is a shrine to the man Dick was just a few years ago, and a part of Jason only wants to light a few candles and maybe burn some incense.

It's *a* bed, though, and he needs as much sleep as he can get. Jason closes his eyes and strokes the back of Dick's head. On his way down, he wonders if the Haly's poster over the bed will detach itself and float down to smother him if he touches Dick in any other ways...

The truth is, he'd avoided this room like the plague when he was a kid—after a glimpse had shown him that it *was* a shrine to Dick. He just didn't want to *think* about it, since every time he tried fear would rise in his throat *and* grow thorns. Now he's here, *in* the bed...

No crack of thunder. No alarms or recriminations.

Just—Dick.

Jason slips down.


	25. Chapter 25

And wakes up alone and disoriented—

Dick's taking a shower, and the quality of light says it's early afternoon—meaning that Tim is around *somewhere*, thanks to the light and funky little bike that Bruce had had made for the kid. Tim stashes it in a Bat-garage a few blocks from his home when it's out, and Jason heads right for it once he's down in the Cave.

It's a lot like *Jason's* first bike. Not too much power and not too much room for frills—just enough to get Robin where he needs to be more or less when he *needs* to be there, complete with a few secret compartments chock full of nasty surprises.

Tim gets to have a compartment full of small explosives far too close to his sac for Jason to be anything *like* comfortable, but Tim actually has an innate gift for demolitions to go with all of that ruthless care. Bruce had *thought* about the contents of that compartment for Tim, and had come up with the best possible solution. Jason runs two fingers over the seat and actually turns to take Tim *in*.

He's topless, but wearing the entirety of the lower half of his uniform, working the staff and grunting for invisible opponents in a way he absolutely wouldn't if he were on the street.

Or if he were feeling optimal.

Jason grabs another one of the staves, extends it, and moves within range—

Tim immediately goes on the attack, just as he's supposed to. He's also doing his best to read Jason's eyes, but—

Yeah, there's one fuck of a lot of resentment for the fact that Jason's making him do that. He doesn't want Jason here, at all, and if Jason were anything like a good person, he wouldn't be making Tim do this now.

He is only himself. "Talk to me," Jason says, and makes Tim leap over a sweep—

"I'd rather work."

Alternately, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Jason. Jason shakes his head. "We have to clear this up," and he gives Tim a few hard blocks, enough to *move* him—

"Clear this. You knowingly let my parents fly into danger, Jason. I'm not sure if there's anything that can be *cleared*," and Tim's attack is brutal, thorough, and *precise*.

There's nothing of anger to it, and the control is about as impressive as it can be. Jason responds to it as best he can, forcing Tim back a few paces—

Tim leaps like Dick had taught him, striking down—and spinning away from Jason's return attack, landing on his toes and spinning the staff to fight Jason back a little.

"I might have just been letting the timeline—"

"Stop," Tim says, and begins striking for Jason's legs and feet. "If we're going to talk, you're going to be honest. If you can manage that."

Ouch. But—he really was going into bullshit mode, and the only person who ought to understand Jason better is currently doing his best to keep Tim's fucking parents alive. "All right. I'm sorry—"

"For *what*—"

"Hurting you. Making your life more difficult. Making you worry. Making you—doubt me," and Jason lets Tim move him, noting the speed Tim only brings out when he feels like he's in serious danger, because it saps his stamina—

Tim laughs, cracked and high and *hurt*—"I wasn't going to say this, but *fuck* you, Jason. You're full of all this *talk* about how you only bring the serious punishment to people who deserve it, but then you do *this*. You let this *happen*," and Tim isn't giving him spar-grade attacks, now. He's going for *damage*, and the fact that he can do that while still being so controlled—

"You're so fucking good—"

"Shut *up*. I don't want to hear that from you. I don't want to hear *anything* from you," and Tim is going for Jason's hands, now, strikes designed to not just make Jason lose his staff, but to crack bone.

Jason nods and gives it back to him, watching Tim settle once more into his own skin, watching him *feel* this.

They do it that way for several minutes, moving all over the mats and letting the staves crack and slide against each other hard enough to make their arms and hands a little numb, hard enough to *pay* for this a little, and—

It's all there in Tim's eyes, the anger and the fucking *crushing* weight of disappointment. Jason could say something about how there should be more fear for his parents, but that would probably be the biggest asshole move he could make. Tim knows *exactly* what is and isn't going through his own head right now, and he knows the implications of all of it.

He wouldn't be half as hurt as he is right now if he *didn't* know, if Jason hadn't forced him to face some seriously uncomfortable truths about how he feels about his parents.

The only family he'd ever known before *them*—

Before him.

And Dick is watching all of this from a safe distance, ready to call time if he has to, to pull the kind of rank that probably *would* make Jason feel resentful as hell if he wasn't aching right now. If he wasn't—

"I need you," Jason says, and Tim's eyes go wide for a second he probably feels is *damning* more than anything else—

Tim growls and lets a little of his control slip, coming faster and harder despite the fact that he can't possibly be feeling the staff in his hands right now—

"You know I wouldn't lie about that," and Jason counters as best he can, letting Tim move him a little more and wondering if he should be going for punishment of his own, if that would make it *better* for Tim—

"I could hate you for that," Tim says, and his voice is a lot shakier than it had been before.

"Maybe you should."

"I'd much rather hate you for playing merry hell with my—with my fucking *family*—"

"That's fair. It's just that I won't lie down and accept it," Jason says, and decides to go with the punishment, the speed and force that brings out everything Tim can give, everything he can do to hurt him right back—

And Tim's showing his teeth now, grunting out growls even as he randomizes his movements. The only thing showing in his eyes right now—

The only thing he's *telegraphing* is rage, but the disconnect between his body and his emotions is still holding steady, impossibly hard and maybe even *better* than it's ever been before.

He's so *good*, and this is exactly what he'd wanted from Tim, back when Tim *was* only potential to him, when he was the round peg he could carve down for the square hole, making all those points sharp enough to slash anyone open—but especially Bruce.

Damn, damn—fuck. "You were supposed to be just like this, Tim."

"What—what are you talking about."

"That was my *plan*, Tim. To make you into the hardest possible weapon, someone who didn't care about anyone *too* much, someone who could look at the Mission with cold, clear eyes and always do exactly what was necessary—"

"Necessary as *you* saw it—"

"Exactly," Jason says, and takes a moment to fight back the strikes which are designed to break his jaw, smash his nose all over his face, and possibly to drive some bone into his *brain*—

"You're *not* cold, and you've never—" Tim growls again and keeps *coming*—"You've never been clear about *anything*."

"No—"

"You're too wound up in your own emotions and you're too fucking *weak*, Jason. You never actually *decided* to do anything about my parents, just laid back in the fucking grass and let—let..."

"Don't stop, kid—"

"*Fuck* you," and now Tim is going for Jason's knees, his hips, his fucking *elbows*—

"Yeah, give it to me—"

"You're still a *child*," Tim says, faking a strike and rolling *behind* Jason, forcing him to turn *and* dance back—

"Come on, Tim—"

"Maybe that has something to do with being raised by a crook and a *whore* and maybe it doesn't. Maybe part of you is still on the fucking *street*—"

"Always," Jason says, gripping the staff with his numb hands—

Too tight, because he doesn't manage to spin it in time to block the fucking *stunning* hit to his forearm—

"Don't you fucking *stop*, Tim—"

"You had no *right*, you fucking asshole! Not to have me and not to throw my parents into danger—let them throw themselves into danger, away from me, always *away* from me, like they were ashamed of me, or I was too loud, too much—"

Fuck, no—

Tim growls like an animal and his control is gone. He's using the staff like a club and his hands and arms are shaking—

Jason disarms Tim as quickly and gently as he can, pulling him in close because he can't do anything else—

The jab to his abdomen is hard and fucking *sharp*, and for a moment Jason wonders if Tim had just gutted him—

But the pain is just from the punch and Tim is only beating on him, forgetting everything they've taught him and fighting like—like a child.

"I'm sorry," Jason says, "I'm so—I never want to hurt you—"

"*Liar*. You want me to feel every goddamned thing you've felt, want me to live in this world like *you* have—"

"Tim—"

"You *do*, Jason! And every time I relax, every time I have—one fucking *moment* of happiness—"

Jason squeezes Tim hard and drops them down onto their knees. It's too much, it's too—true. "You're right."

Tim *sobs*. "That's not *love*. I know I'm young, but that—it's not *love*, Jason, you don't love me—"

"I *do*, Tim. But I didn't always, and that—it spills over and makes a huge fucking mess. It's nothing you should've had to deal with, and—you're right about everything except for that last—"

Tim shoves at him, but he's not strong enough to get out of this hold—

Nerve-strike, and it's fucking *impressive* that he'd managed to get that in with the right placement and force, but mostly it's damned inconvenient, because Jason's left arm is paralyzed, now—

And Tim is scrambling away from him, standing up and—staring. Not glaring.

Jason looks up at him and reaches with his *right* arm. "Come back—"

"*No*. I—damn you. *Fuck* you. I'm not. I'm not your fucking *boy* anymore, Jason, and it'll take more than a fucking hug to *fix* that," Tim says, stalking away—heading for the pommel horse, which he loves.

Jason lets his hand drop to his side and squeezes his eyes shut, and he's anything *but* surprised when Dick crouches beside him. Still— "Go to him, Big Bird. He needs you more."

"I don't think I'm comfortable with the idea of quantifying that particular definition of need, little wing," and Dick starts trying to massage a little life back into Jason's arm.

"You know it'll come back on its own—"

"Yes, *but*. And—note that he didn't say you *couldn't* fix the problem."

The hope is as painful as it should be—

"Yeah, exactly," Dick says, and when Jason opens his eyes, Dick is frowning *into* him. "I think he knows how you feel."

"I think he knows what I *need*," Jason says, and hauls himself to his feet. "There's kind of a big difference."

Dick stands next to him and keeps working Jason's shoulder and arm— "Jay... I'm pretty sure you just need to give him time."

And his parents, safe and sound thanks to Bruce. Who couldn't save them in Jason's world—

"He loves you. I—he can't change the way he sees you, the way he *needs* you—"

"Dick, go to *him*. I'm not the one who doesn't *have* experience with relationships crashing and burning, you know?"

Dick winces hard. "Is that what happened with Bruce? Why you bailed?"

Jason rolls his head on his neck and takes a breath, and another one, and one more after that. "He didn't know how to trust me. I couldn't decide whether that pissed me off or made something really fucking *small* inside me happy. Add to that the fact that I couldn't deal with him being just a man in love... It was a mess all around, and mostly? I was scared shitless and young. Just like Tim."

"That... what he said about you trying to make him feel everything you felt—"

"Yeah. If I'd put it into words like that before..." Jason shakes his head. "I probably would've kept treating him like that, kept *using* him like that. And he rolled with the punches just fine, and kept coming back for more, and more—"

"And you punished him for that, too."

"Yeah. Go to him, Dick. Tell him—whatever he needs to hear."

Dick frowns harder, but he nods and goes.

And the weights... well, they've always been his friend, in one way or another. Every time he could add more on, every time he could do one more full set...

Yeah.

He can *think* while he's doing this, and while part of him doesn't want to do anything of the kind, the rest of him knows that it's worth it. One of them is going to have to go check out Kerns' old commander and try to get something out of him, maybe track down some others from her unit...

Where would she be? What would she be doing—assuming she *is* the bomber Two-Face has on his side? It *could've* been just another citizen's attempt to raze Arkham to the ground, but the bomb was placed too precisely for that *and* it was too small.

The cops are going to have to spend time and effort investigating that angle anyway, but *they* don't have to. It was a successful escape plan, and the fact that Two-Face—and Ivy—had gotten away clean means that at least one of them had to know about it beforehand.

Two-Face. *Definitely* Two-Face, because it all fits, so—

So. At *some* point, Two-Face—or Harvey Dent—had had some kind of hook-up with Kerns. It would be too easy for her to be on the visitors' log, so that means one of them will have to head back to Arkham tonight with a picture of her.

If she'd gone in with a fake ID and some faked-up business cards for a law firm, she could've gotten in and out without so much as being filmed or recorded in any other way. Arkham: proof that civil rights come with a *steep* fucking price.

And what's Two-Face's *plan*, anyway? In his world, the guy had immediately gone after Batman, luring him into a trap Nightwing couldn't save him from without Tim—

God, what he wouldn't *give* for Bruce's *complete* records for that time period. He doesn't even know *where* the trap was set, not even the damned *neighborhood*—

And Tim's not going to quit, and he's going to be so professional they'll all fucking *choke* on it—

Not his boy, anymore.

There's a scar on his chest that really wants to *deny* that, wants to scream about all the blood between them, all the great fucking sex and all the ways they can *hold* each other—

Jason moves off the weights and watches Dick guide Tim through another routine. He's finding it difficult, judging by the lack of precision in his moves, but there's no way to know if it's the routine, Jason, or some fucked up combination of the two.

Jason goes to do katas and waits for the night.


	26. Chapter 26

Getting onto a military base without damaging too many innocent soldiers or raising an alarm is an interesting challenge, but ultimately it takes too long for Jason to enjoy himself. He'd hacked the system—with Tim's cool, near-wordless help and a powerfully *useless* desire to know how much Tim played with Babs in his own world—enough to get a map of the base and an idea of where to find the people he was looking for, and now he's in motion, doing his best to move like someone who belongs here.

He could've gotten himself a uniform, but that would've taken more time than they *have*—

Two more soldiers to drop and drag into the shadows, and it goes as fine as the others... except that one of them snores. A lot. *Loudly*. Jason can't just stuff a rag into the woman's mouth and he can't turn her face into the dirt. Sitting her up lowers the volume significantly, but now there's an apparently unconscious soldier sitting *up*.

Jason sucks it up and drags her as much into the shadow of a sad-looking little bush as he can manage. She still looks obvious as all *hell*, but—

Jason moves faster, and now he's counting windows against the map in his mind—there.

Up for a look—at a darkened bedroom. Too dark, so he switches to night-vision—Lieutenant Stokes sleeps like he's posed in a coffin, doesn't snore even a little bit, and *looks* like the kind of light sleeper that just might get Jason discovered.

Jason manages to lever open the screen silently *enough*, but... this guy is gonna wake up. He just *is*.

Fine. Jason slips in, rolls to his feet, and *just* manages to get the guy pinned and a hand over his mouth before Stokes can get his nine millimeter out and aimed.

"I'm not here to hurt anyone," Jason says, calm and quiet and serious. "I'm just here to ask questions."

Stokes glares at him and fights the pin exactly like someone trained and trained well.

Jason shakes his head. "If I *have* to hurt you, I will, Lieutenant."

Stokes goes still, narrows his eyes, and nods.

"I know exactly how to crush your windpipe, so *don't* try to shout," Jason says, pulling his hand away and popping the clip out of the nine millimeter—

"What the hell do you want, boy?"

Boy. Right. "Traci Kerns. We have reason to believe she hooked up with Two-Face—*after* fire-bombing the apartment building she lived in and killing an old woman."

Stokes' nostrils flare and he shakes his head minutely.

"What? Anything you can tell me would be a help."

"I'll talk to the *cops*, boy. Not you."

"Look at me, Lieutenant. Think about who I am. I'm working *with* the cops, because the Gotham police commissioner knows I can get certain things done faster and better than they do. Two-Face is a killer and so is Kerns. I'm just trying to protect innocent people here."

"By sneaking onto a *military* base, and—how many people did you take out on your way here?"

"Seven,*gently*, and you're wasting time. I want out of here as much as you *want* me out of here, Stokes, so *give*."

Stokes glares at him a little longer and then grunts, shifting beneath Jason—

Jason pulls out of the pin and stands beside Stokes' bed, *feeling* every second it takes the guy to sit up and push a hand back over his tight curls—

"Gotham. The governor ought to declare a state of emergency and send in the National Guard for a few months."

"Until he does? They've got *me*. Now—"

"She followed orders, kept herself and her equipment in shape, and never broke a single regulation. And everyone in the unit with a functioning brain wanted her out ASAP."

"Why?"

"She's a spook, boy. Something's wrong in her head. If she was a guy, I'd be looking for bodies in her backyard. As it is... she has all the demolitions training any home-grown terrorist could ask for. I petitioned to get her some counseling through the V.A. when we got back in-country, but she turned it down just as sweet as you please and gave me a look that'll make me shoot first and ask questions later if I ever see her in a dark alley."

Well, fuck.

"That what you wanted to know?"

"What about the people in the unit who *didn't* have a functioning brain? Anyone like her, hang around with her?"

Stokes sighs. "There's one boy... he's out, now. Carried a torch for her a mile high and wouldn't hear a thing against her."

"I need a name, Lieutenant."

"Why? So you can climb in *his* damned bedroom window?"

"You follow the news? *Someone* bombed the shit out of Arkham, and now one of the country's greatest killers is out with a whole big list of scores to settle—"

"And maybe he wouldn't *be* the psycho he is if your boss wasn't flying around with his underwear outside his pants breaking half the laws that make this country worth fighting for—"

"There are *always* gonna be crazy people out there, Lieutenant, and those people? Will *always* find a reason to do the shit they do. If your guy hasn't done anything wrong, nothing bad will happen to him. You have my word."

"The word of some teenager in a mask doesn't mean *shit* to me, boy—"

"I'll grow up when I have the *time* for it, Stokes. Right now? I'm more worried about the people who make *up* this country you love."

The glare is back, but Jason is getting that it only comes out when there's something Stokes can't do anything to change—or fix.

His troops probably love him, but the seconds are ticking away, and who knows how long Kerns has had to make *up* the bombs Two-Face will tell her where to plant? Just—

"Adam Smith, born eight-thirteen-eighty-six. I know it sounds fake, but it isn't—as far as the U.S. Army could tell, anyway. Last I heard, he was living up in Teaneck... but I wouldn't be surprised if he followed Kerns to Gotham."

"Thank you." And the boy in him wants to sketch Stokes a half-assed salute, but the rest of him is already moving, retracing his steps as quickly and safely as possible—

And then a lot fucking faster than *that* when the shouts start. He makes it to his bike just as the searchlights come on, and then he's on the road and *really* moving.

"N to J."

"I'm here, go."

"Two guards at Arkham recognized our girl—apparently she gave one of them a fake phone number."

Score. "How many visits?"

"Two about a year ago and one last month. She *did* pose as a lawyer, and nobody caught it."

"Fucking A. *One* day someone's going to smuggle a suitcase bomb into that place, and I, for one, am *not* gonna shed any tears."

"J—"

"I know, I know. I spoke to her CO. Apparently, she's just as psycho as we think she is. No friends, but one guy with a major crush on her. I've got a name and a birth date."

"Give it to R, he can run it down in the Cave. The signal is up again and I'm headed to Central. N out."

Hell, what *now*? No, focus on what he *can* do. "R—"

"I'm ready for the information, J."

They *have* to be professional on this channel, but—motherfuck, is he ready for an end to the freeze-out. *Somehow*. Jason gives him the information and heads for Gotham at speed.

There's the usual moment of relief—possibly *release*—when he finally makes it to the outskirts of Gotham, but—

"J, it's N, we have a problem."

"Another one?"

"*Same* one. Two-Face phoned in bomb threats to the MCU. Nothing about where they are, just a call for a ransom to be brought by B."

"Shit. *Where*?"

"The docks. The Coast Guard is already mobilized and searching ships and boats, but the Commissioner has nothing."

Fuck, but— "We can fake it. Put me in the suit and send me in—"

"That's a *big* no, J. We *know* it'll be a trap—"

"And I'll have *back*-up, N—"

"Just *wait*," Dick says, and "R, are you hearing this?"

"Every word. I have an address for Smith, but it's possible that we don't have time for that, right now?"

"We're doing this by the book, guys. And that means no walking into traps unless we *have* to—"

"N, he's got his finger on the fucking *button*—"

"And the police are swarming the location like he *knew* they would, J. C'mon, think, it's a *fake*."

He's right. He's *right*, but— "Something doesn't sit right with that. How *many* cops did Gordon send down there?"

"He didn't give me a number, but I'm willing to bet he cleared the nearest precincts—"

"What if. Um."

"R?"

Something. *Something*. "*Say* it, R, we need all the ideas we can get—"

"What if the police are the targets?"

Shit, *that*. "N—"

"I'm calling the Commissioner *right* now. I—R, give J the info on Smith, and—oh, no. Oh, no."

"N, *what*—" But Jason can see the smoke billowing up into the sky. He can't hear any screams, but he's still too far away for that—

"N? J?"

"Oh, God, no—"

"You called it, R. He's playing all of us."

Dick sucks in a breath. "We have to—"

"Find Two-Face," Jason says. "The EMTs will *know* where to go."

"Jesus, J—"

"N. You were right before and I'm right *now*. Pick an r-point to meet up with R—"

"Shouldn't someone be here to hunt down information?"

Jason fights back the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, because apparently Tim's the only one of them thinking things through. "Yeah, R, you're right. N, stay on top of things with Gordon. R, give me the info on Smith. I'll get something out of him if I have to wring him out with my bare hands. Okay?"

"Noted," Tim says—

"All right," Dick says. "I—all right. But if the Commissioner wants our help with the downed officers, we have to give it."

"Agreed," Jason says, mostly because he knows Gordon is going to want them after Two-Face more than ever. "Is he distributing the picture of Kerns?"

"Every precinct and the media, with the word out that she's wanted as a witness. Is there anything else?"

Both he and Tim say no, and Dick drops out—though none of them will be turning their comms off. Tim gives him the address and Jason heads in for it, feeling the empty space on the back of his bike even more, but...

Even with fuck only knows how many dead cops there are out there—and they *would've* all been in body armor, so that has to help a *little*—there's something he *needs* in the knowledge that the comms *are* on. He's with his family, the only family that matters—

Is this what the family in his own world felt when Babs was running the show as Oracle? To know that you were always there and always *on*...

He doesn't know, but it feels good enough to keep him going, moving closer and closer to a man who may or may not be able to do anything for them—

"J," Tim says, "I have a little more information on Smith."

"Good—go." And he knows that Tim heard that hesitation, and he hopes to fucking God he gets some points for it—

"I have a recent application for unemployment. His last employer was a software firm, and he was fired for taking too many sick days. There are no recent hospitalizations or trips to a physician."

"Anything on when the absences started?"

"Nothing from the employer, but his cable box has logged increased daytime use as of three weeks ago."

When the apartment building went up in smoke. But— "You hacked his cable company?"

"It's one of the few sources of voluntary surveillance available in this country," and Tim's tone is defensive as all hell, which is anything but what he'd intended.

"It was a *good* thought, R. I—you're really doing well," Jason says, feeling like a parody of himself and wondering why the *honest* things sound so fucking off—

"Thank you. I. What's your twenty?"

"Five, maybe eight minutes away from Smith—or whatever booby traps they left at his place."

Tim is silent for a good, long while, which probably means he's trying to get more information, but—

Jason can feel him. It helps.

Smith's place turns out to be a well-made brownstone in a seriously fucked neighborhood. The rent would be relatively low for Gotham, but if the crime rate doesn't take him out, the gentrification hordes—creeping up from the east—will.

For now—

"J, it's definitely the first floor for the apartment, but I have some canceled checks here which suggest he's paying for a chunk of the basement, too."

"Noted, R. I've got one light showing in the first floor, but no one visible. Lots of electronic equipment broken down on a table, though. I'm gonna assume that this place is rigged. Who lives on the top two floors?"

"Four college students on the third floor, a family with one child on the second. They have some great new—and connected—fire alarms, J. Should I set them off?"

What is the kid *doing* over there? "Uh—go for it."

"Done. I think. What—"

"You're good, R." And the beeping is *loud*. Lights are coming on and people are moving—on the top two floors. Nothing on the first, and he has to *wait*.

Jason takes a calming breath, another—

Six adults and one toddler come spilling out the front door. None of them are Smith, all of them look confused as hell. Jason steps out of the shadows and claps his hands twice—he has their attention. "Be quiet and get clear—we got a bomb threat."

Lots of wide eyes, but they're moving toward him and away from the giant death house, which is all to the good. A quick check tells him that none of them have seen Smith recently, and he promises to go in and look for the guy. And that, yes, Batman is on the case.

Gotta love Gotham.

"R, I'm going in."

"All right. I. Be careful," Tim says, and sounds *extremely* pissed about it, which means it's a damned good thing that he can't see Jason's smile.

He knows the front door isn't rigged, but he can't risk the front door of Smith's *apartment*—or any of the windows. What he'd *like* to do is somehow shrink himself enough to go in through the plumbing from the second floor apartment, but the multiverse doesn't actually care for what he wants. That leaves the basement, which, if anything, makes him feel even *more* squirrelly, but fuck it.

He checks the door carefully for any new-looking tool marks, but the thing looks both solid and old. If *he* were a mad bomber, he'd rig every single entryway, but the basement would be at least potentially available to all tenants, and they'd be going with the idea that the *cops* would be coming in. The way the basement entrance is set up—with the very steep stairs right *there*—would make it tricky to get the ram in. So... call it seventy percent likely that he's not going to get blown *through* those stairs once he's done picking the locks.

One down, one to go—

Take a breath—

In, nice and low—whimpering noise and a red glow from the northeast. Jason flips his night-vision lenses and moves—

Bomb. Smith.

All in one nice, neat package. Well, *neat*, anyway. Smith has the kind of face that would look more correct on a fat guy, the same haircut the Army had given him, and about a pound of plastique strapped to his chest with duct tape. Jason should've asked if anything had gone missing from the Army stores right about the time Kerns had gotten out.

And—there's an hour on the clock, which matches with the deadline Two-Face had given the cops. Okay.

Okay. Second look, nice and thorough. Smith had pissed himself long enough ago that it's starting to dry. His wrists and ankles are bound with the tape. He's sweating like a pig. The bomb—

There really are wires *everywhere*, and while he has some training with this kind of thing, he's nowhere near Bruce's level with this stuff. He—

He can't. And maybe he should've let Bruce *stay* here instead of—

No time for that. 

"R, call in the cavalry. We've got a bomb strapped to Smith with fifty-eight minutes on the clock. Plastique, non-standard arrangement."

"Noted, calling—"

"I'm giving the poor bastard a shot of valium once I'm done with him."

"Why not knock him out?"

Because he let a psychotic killer use his place as a crash pad and I'm not feeling generous—give the *other* reason— "Because the only halfway safe method with the way this device is set up is to choke him out, and *everyone* struggles when you do that."

"I—all right. I'm connected, R out."

Yeah, he'd heard *both* of those reasons, probably. Jason rips the tape off Smith's mouth—

"Please! Get me out of this!"

"No can do, guy. But we're calling in the people who *can*." Maybe. "Where's Kerns?"

"I—I really don't—"

"*Don't* bullshit me, fucker. We know who you are and we know you've got a hard-on for the bitch. She's a killer, and if *we* don't get her? Some cop's gonna put a bullet in her brain, thanks to some shit she pulled down by the docks."

"You don't understand! She's—she's *troubled*. The war was hard on all of us, and she just needs help—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Jason says, *carefully* reaching between the guy's legs and getting a *grip*. "Now listen to me carefully. I can make it so that you never have kids. I? Can make it so you never get it *up* again. And I can do it right here and now, and *still* make it out of here before the bomb squad shows up. And you know what? I might do it *just* because you forced me to touch your pissy fucking *chinos*—"

"Please don't hurt her!"

"She wired you to a *bomb*—"

"It's only—I made her angry. I became too jealous and also—"

The shriek is pretty satisfying as these things go, but Jason already knows that it's going to take more. So. A knife pointed at Smith's right eye. "You wanna see her again, don't you?"

"*Yes*!"

"Look at that pretty face, gaze into those cold, dead eyes—"

"Please don't hurt me anymore—"

"Then *talk*. I promise you—if she doesn't resist too hard, she'll make it in with just some bumps and bruises." Maybe.

Smith stares at him, desperate and pleading, helpless—

C'mon, c'mon—

"I don't *know* where she is. She—she left with. Two-Face."

Damn. "Car?"

"M-mine. My car—ah. An oh-four Chrysolet Hawk. License plate three - r - w - five - nine - one."

"Got it, J, searching," Tim says, and Jason nods.

"What else? How many bombs did she make while she was here?"

"F-four. I think. At least—there were four blocks of plastique. Um. Other than this one. She took them all—"

"What did they *say* to each other?"

And for some reason, *that* makes the guy's face crumple—he's actually crying. Which—fine. Play it that way.

"They said they loved each other, didn't they?"

"Y-yes. They—she said she'd been waiting her whole life for him, and he—kissed her. For a very long time."

Right in front of the guy, and oh, did Jason *ever* not need the image of Two-Face macking on *anybody*. Right, soldier fucking on. "Any maps? Blueprints?"

"There were—she took them. I think."

Oh. "You *think*?"

"After she packed up the plastique, Two-Face threw me down here and there were a few minutes before she came down to. Wire me up. I don't know what happened to the blueprints."

"Think *carefully*, Adam. Is there *anything* else that can help me find—your girl?"

"She. She likes candy. Bereford brand. I—she's always leaving the wrappers around, but I don't mind. It makes it feel like she's always here. Everywhere."

"Good job. Now just relax," Jason says, and pulls the Valium syringe from the goodie-case he keeps in his right inside pocket. Smith's eyes roll up immediately, and Jason's up the stairs. The sirens are getting closer, but Smith's door is unlocked, and—

Nothing in the living room—

Nothing in the bedroom or bathroom—

Blueprints all *over* the kitchen table, and—

Wayne Tower. Every last one of them. There are no convenient red x's where the bombs would go, but he grabs them all, anyway, and slips out the back, running for his bike, and—

"J to N—"

"I'm here, what have you got?"

"The blueprints our happy couple—and they *are* a couple—left behind were all of Wayne Tower."

Dick whistles. "Okay, so Dent's looking to burn his last bridge."

"*Maybe*. The Tower is almost empty this time of night, and Dent usually likes a body count."

"True. Hell. R?"

"Here," Tim says. "The bomb squad is moving in on Smith's apartment and I've sent out—"

"A description of the car, yeah, we got it," Dick says. "We've got two fatalities on the docks and eight more officers gravely wounded. The rest of the wounded are likely to survive, and I think we need to move on Wayne Tower."

Fuck. "N—"

"It's the best information we have right now, and it makes sense. Dent already struck at Gordon. It would make *sense* for him to go for—Wayne."

"For certain values of sense, yes," Tim says. "I—should I still stay here? If we're going after him—"

"You're coordinating things," Jason says. "We need you to *keep* doing that." And I'm not ready for you to go up against someone like Dent—

"What J said, R. And J—meet me at the Tower. I promise I won't go in without you."

That—is about as good as he's likely to get. "Fine, N. I'm fifteen minutes out."

"N out."

Jason hits it, focusing on making it through the traffic—because Gothamites are running around acting *just* like a known psychopath is setting off bombs. Right. But—

"R, keep an eye on the private—"

"The roads, yes. I—what's the protocol if there *is* an attack?"

"Stay in the Cave and don't try anything fancy," Dick says. "Nothing else matters, you hear me?"

"Yes," Tim says, and goes silent again.

Five minutes out, and Jason *knows* there's something wrong with this, that something's not *working*—

"Signal," Dick says, and, "Hell, I've gotta go back—"

*That*. "Wait. Just lemme think for a minute, N—"

"The car was just found," Tim says. "*Near* Central—"

"Two-Face," Jason says, feeling something cold and thickly satisfying settle in his gut.

"God. He got the Commissioner to clear the place—everyone's on the *street*—" Dick takes a breath. "All right, we know he wants B, and we know he's not going to get him. *And* we know that every cop out there is trained *not* to pay attention to the roof of Central when the signal's on. All right. R-point alpha, J."

And a high-powered rifle for his birthday, maybe? "Coming," Jason says, leaving rubber when he turns the bike and pouring it on.

It takes several kinds of too long to get to the rooftop with the best view of Central, and Dick is already there—

"I got a view of Two-Face with a gun to the Commissioner's head two minutes ago, J. No sign of Kerns."

"Because she's wiring the place to blow. I think we should come in through the building, maybe catch Kerns on her way up—he'll be expecting her."

Dick grunts and lowers his scope. "Unless he ordered her to stay down—no, I know, you're right. There's only one way up to the roof. You go in, I'll swing onto the roof to cover you the moment you signal me."

"Done. Don't get shot."

"Same to you, little wing. Go."

Jason does. It feels like it takes an hour to get down, across the street, and *in*, but he makes it, and there's no sound of gunshots, yet. There *are* people in here, but they're all support staff. Some are shot, some are taking care of the ones who've *been* shot—He flags a man running with towels. "How long before back-up gets here?"

"Everyone's scattered and I think Two-Face and the woman are still here!"

Yeah, pretty much. "Try to stay calm. Do you know where the woman *went*?"

"B-basement! I think. I mean, I don't know. I'm just trying to—I have to check on Cindy—"

"Go," Jason says, and tries to think, tries to—focus. The signal's only been on for—he checks—seventeen minutes. Two-Face "knows" that Batman's been running all over the city. He *would* give him a half hour—

Assuming his slightly more sane half is in control, which he *can't*.

It's just that all Two-Face has are his guns, while Kerns has up to three pounds of plastique *and* whatever other weapons she might be carrying—

And Jason's already moving for the basement.

"Hang tight, N, I've gotta at least try to track down Little Miss Demolition—"

"Hurry, he's ranting."

Shit. "Yeah, J out."

The building's old enough that there's only one way down to the basement, *too*, and for the first time since he's been here, Jason is seriously, fervently, and desperately wishing for a gun.

Just—he'd only have to retrace his steps a *little* to get to the armory—

No time, and not a lot of room for that kind of thinking, either. Jason pulls out three shuriken and holds them ready. The door to the basement is open, and the steps—

Fuck, the steps are actually *wooden*. Whose bright idea was it not to change *that*?

Jason shakes his head and goes down as quickly and quietly as he can, night-vision lenses down—movement.

He dives and tosses, feeling the wind of a bullet screaming past his ear. Kerns has night-vision *goggles*, and Jason *has* a flash-bang, but there's no way in hell he's using it when he has no idea where the bombs are—

More bullets, and Jason's moving, rolling, shoving a rack of old uniforms toward the very *much* military-trained woman who's rolling right with him. She only has one gun, though, and she's going to run out of bullets—

Jason tosses another three shuriken as soon as he hears the click. One knocks the gun out of her hand, one buries itself in her shoulder, and the last actually looks more silly than anything else sticking out of her forehead—

"*Bastard*—"

"That's me, lady, now c'mere and take a little punishment."

She knocks the shuriken out of her shoulder and forehead and immediately starts bleeding like a stuck pig. "You can't hurt me. I'm the only one who can defuse these bombs," she says, gesturing—

Three bricks of plastique and a set-up that would probably give even Bruce a serious headache, but—he's out of patience.

Jason kicks her in the head—*moderately*—kicks her in the ribs, gives her a chop to the back of the neck and trusses her up. "Here's the deal, Kerns. I'm about to go upstairs and get everyone out of here. I? Frankly don't care if you go up *with* the building—"

"Harvey has your precious *Gordon*," she says, spitting blood and possibly a little venom, too.

Jason smiles. "He won't for long. Think about whether or not you want to die while I go take care of business, k?" He takes the stairs two at a time and snags the guy with the towels, ordering him to get everyone out as quickly as possible because of the bombs in the basement.

He counts down in his head, and—twenty minutes. They really might *not* be able to save the building, but, hell, Bruce will *buy* them a new one. Maybe this one won't have wooden fucking *stairs*—

They aren't wooden on the way up to the roof, though, and he pauses to call in to Dick, who happily doesn't argue about his tying Kerns up with her handiwork—

"He's pacing. Call it ten seconds before he has his back to the door again—"

"Got it," Jason says. "On your signal."

Four—

Three—

Two—

"*Now*—"

And Jason's out through the door, but Two-Face is too quick for Jason to make his stab with the knife a good one. His wrist is slashed, though, and the gun wobbles in his hand—

Gordon elbows him in the gut, spinning away and pulling his ankle piece— "Drop it, Dent—"

Except that Two-Face is moving, dropping, turning to shoot *Dick*—

And Gordon pumps a bullet into his back before Jason can so much as go for him—

"*Fuck*, Jim, I thought—I thought we meant more. To each other, that is..." And Dent's laugh is awful and thick—

Yeah, there's the blood spilling out of his mouth *much* too fast—

"Jesus," Dick says, kicking Two-Face's gun away from his—twitching—hand. "We have to get him to the EMTs downstairs—"

Gordon grunts and tucks the gun back in his ankle holster. "What about everyone inside? Kerns?"

"Some casualties—I put one of the healthy ones to getting everyone out. There's a good three pounds of plastique in the basement, set to blow in fifteen. Kerns is right there with it, hopefully giving serious thought to the question of whether or not she'll help us defuse it."

Gordon shakes his head. "Jay. That's not the way we do things—"

Dick claps Gordon on the shoulder. "We're getting you and Two-Face out of here, Commissioner, and—R?"

"I've already contacted the bomb squad," Tim says. "They're at least ten minutes out, but the perimeter has already been established outside."

Dick nods and bends to throw Two-Face over his shoulder. "Let us fly you down—"

"I'm going back down to the basement, N."

"J, no—"

"I've gotta give Kerns a chance. There'll still be plenty of time for me to get out if she doesn't give it up—"

"Get. Her. *Out*," Gordon says. "We barely managed to save Smith, and we're not letting the whole conspiracy go down like—like *this*."

And that—Jason shakes his head and grabs Gordon, shooting his grapple a half-second after Dick does and taking him down—

"Are you listening to me? This doesn't *work* if there are *bodies* everywhere, Jay—"

Jay, not J. Because Gordon knows, even if he can't possibly understand. He *always* knows. Because—

It's the kind of thing that might as well be designed to reach between his legs with a pair of fucking pinking shears and *snip*, and *that's* without looking into Gordon's eyes and seeing the desperation, the hope and the fear—

Gordon has always trusted. Always *believed*.

And somewhere down in Haiti, Bruce is doing the same damned thing.

Jason nods and sets Gordon down on the sidewalk before running back into the building. Everyone's out—even the ones who didn't look like they were breathing.

The basement is waiting for him—

And so is Kerns.

He gives her ten seconds to curse and spit, and then he lifts her head by the hair. "You want to see Two-Face again someday, don't you?"

"*No*. You didn't catch him, you couldn't have—"

"To be honest? It was Gordon himself who took him down. We just gave him a little help. Right now, Two-Face is being treated for a... minor gunshot wound. He'll be on his way back to Arkham in no time." They might even re-open the old cemetery on the grounds for him. "*You* could join him there."

"Or *what*? You people don't kill—"

"You see the uniform I'm not wearing? No one really *approves* of my way of doing things. Here's a hint—I didn't even *try* to free that pathetic little shit who wanted to be your boyfriend."

Kerns rears back as much as she can in Jason's grip, blinking—and thinking.

Yeah, *do* that, you psychotic little bitch. Think about all the ways you *could* die down here alone with me...

"I don't believe you—"

"Fine. There's this little trick I learned... oh, let's call it 'elsewhere' and leave it at that. I'm just going to give you a little pinch, and it'll make sure you're *hyper*-aware of everything around you. The rats in the walls, the sirens outside, the smell of dust—and the feel of your body getting blown apart for every millisecond it takes for you to die. And then? I'm out of here. Because the bomb squad *isn't* gonna make it in time," Jason says, and reaches out to just *brush* the skin on the back of Kerns' neck a little—

"*Fuck* you—"

"Better people than you have said that to me. I'm curious, though. You've been alone your whole life. No one understood you, and *you* didn't understand anyone else. You didn't feel what they felt, and they sure as *fuck* didn't feel what *you* felt..."

Kerns struggles impressively, but the zip strips won't let her get anywhere or do anything notable.

"But you found good ol' Harvey, didn't you? *He* got you. Kissed you, held you, promised you things—maybe even *kept* a few of those promises, hunh?"

"Shut *up*—"

"Right now he's all alone, surrounded by people who hate him *because* they fear him. And I made a point of telling him you were trussed up down here," Jason says, catching downy skin between his fingertips and pulling a bit. "No one will blink twice if the EMTs make a mistake with Dent, you know. He's going to die alone. But, more than that? *You'll* die alone. Just like you always knew you would. How does it feel?"

Kerns groans and shudders, then slumps against the floor.

Jason fights back *most* of the smile. "No answer for me? Well, there'll be other psychos out there. Have a nice trip to hell, Trace. Or did anyone ever call you that...?"

"Stop. Just—I. It's the indigo wire. And the sky blue wire. Ignore the others, they're just there to look—to make it all look complicated," she says, and a big and important part of Jason would *like* to see her eyes for this, but the rest of him knows that it would be a lot like trying to read a fucking lizard.

And not one of the friendly ones, either.

He pulls his knife and thinks about it, about what it would've been like to have the Joker trussed up and at his mercy, ready to spill anything just to avoid dying alone and without—love. No, it falls apart. Joker is something else, altogether, and he's procrastinating.

He picks up a length of the indigo wire and folds it carefully before slicing through—

He's alive, and it's entirely possible that the sound he's hearing is Kerns crying her black little heart out. Right. Sky-blue wire—

"J, what—get *out* of there," Tim says. "Please, it's just a building. You can take her with you if you want, but you can't trust—"

"I have to do this, R. Just—for me."

"*Please*, I—I can see down the stairs with the camera, but I can't see you, I can't—please, J..."

Begging. Absolutely *begging*, but.

He *needs* this, he realizes. More than anything else. One bomb for another. One chance for another. One *life*—

"I'm sorry, R," Jason says, and cuts the other wire.

"*No*!"

Nothing happens. Nothing—the clock stops and starts *blinking*—

And stops.

Jason breathes and throws Kerns over his shoulder, jogging up the stairs—

"God fucking *damn* you, J," and Tim is breathing hard and probably hot. He's—

I love you, too, he doesn't say, and walks out into the night, dumping Kerns on the pavement and taking off. It's an ass move to leave Dick to do the talking, but Nightwing *has* to be used to that kind of thing from the Titans.

There are other things to do tonight.


	27. Chapter 27

He spends the rest of the night patrolling in widening spirals with Tim periodically giving updates about the injured officers and running down a list of abandoned greenhouses and arboretums for them to look into. Dick gets through three of them, and Jason...

Hasn't been back to his base in over a day.

When he *does* get there, the sun is almost up, but the place is dark and cold. Empty.

There's no sign that the sensor has gone off, and no sign that it hasn't.

Jason gives himself an hour to work his blown-out brain to figure out a way for it *to* leave a sign—

And another half hour to fight with himself over the question of whether he'd actually want to *know* if he'd missed anything.

In the end, he's on the bike and heading back out to the manor against the tide of rush hour traffic, needing and not having, wanting and thinking too much—

Too *much*, because Tim is getting some much-needed rest and he can't go there. Not until—

Not ever?

He can't think about that, either, but Gothamites *expect* vehicles that look like this to break every law there is. Hell, they even *like* it—especially if said vehicle is heading in the opposite direction *they* are.

He pulls into the Cave, parks, and just—gives himself a minute, letting his head hang and breathing, not thinking.

Just breathing.

And when he takes off his helmet, Tim is right there staring at him, body tense and eyes fucking *bruised*-looking.

"Why aren't you home and sleeping?"

"Tim Drake got up early today. It happens—for all that Mrs. Mac knows. Why did you do it?"

No need to ask which it right now... or is there? "Tim—"

"You trained me to brutal, precise, and never, never reckless. *You* did that—"

"I did. And I wasn't being reckless, Tim—I had her."

"Had her. Really. A psychopath who'd managed—despite the kind of mental damage that *regularly* lands people in Arkham—to trick her way out of any number of opportunities for psychiatric care. Did you know that her parents tried and failed to have her committed twice? They're dead now—extremely suspiciously—and she was *still* walking free," Tim says, shaking his head and clenching his jaw. "But you... had her."

"Yes. I did. And—"

"And you're a lying *asshole*, Jason, but I can't tell if you're lying to both of us or just to me. Maybe when I can I'll be a *real* detective," and Tim turns to walk away, which—

No. Jason gets off the bike and catches Tim by the shoulder, dancing back—for a strike that doesn't come.

Tim's just standing there, all but fucking *vibrating* with tension— "Let me go."

"I wasn't lying. You interrupted before I could tell you the *rest* of the truth," Jason says, and knows that Tim's listening by the way he gets even *more* tense for a beat—

Another— "Tell me."

"Look at me," Jason says, and squeezes Tim's shoulder. "*See* me."

Tim sucks in a breath and turns around, showing Jason all the anger, all the *hurt*—

"I guess there was no way you were sleeping tonight," Jason says, and can't keep himself from thinking about all the nights when the *only* thing which could take him under was the feel of Bruce's weight on him, the sound of ruthlessly even breathing and the scent of the man who loved him, whether or not he should've done anything of the kind— "I miss you."

Tim snarls—blanks his face. "Tell me."

Yeah. That. "I needed it. There was time enough for me to get free, but I *needed* it. Dead cops, that fuckup of a boyfriend, Gordon finally putting a bullet in the man who killed my father... and my own death. The memories of it that can't seem to decide whether to be burned on my brain or gone in that final wash of light and heat—I." Jason grips both of Tim's shoulders. "I needed it. I had to try, and I could say something about how there would've been flying debris taking out the rescue workers, how the destruction of Central would've sent police work back *years* in this city—"

"Stop. *Lying*—"

"All right. All right," Jason says, and drops into a crouch. "I had to prove I could do it. For *me*. That I could break someone without using my fists and that I could handle a—a fucking *bomb*. And maybe that's juvenile—"

"It's stupid, callous, and *selfish*, Jason, and I can't believe you can't *see* that—"

"I'm just another street punk, kid—"

Tim knocks Jason's hands off his shoulders, and—

The motion that ends with Tim's little knife hovering just beyond his *eye* is something he could've stopped, but— "Fuck, I love the way you move—"

"*Shut* up. You're not *just* anything, Jason—except for when you *let* yourself, fucking give yourself *leave* to shut your brain off and let your muscles do all the thinking. *If* you let anything do the thinking, at all—"

"I was never the fucking *smart* one, Tim. That's *you*—"

"I *am* smart. Smart enough to know what I'm looking at, and that? Is someone who looked around, saw that things were fucked up and *difficult*, and decided to let them stay that way. Because it was *easier* than doing something about it—"

"I'm never going to *fix* Bruce. *No* one can—"

"But you can fix the world around him? Build him a *better* Robin? One who can love him and still protect himself, because you'll teach him—teach *me*—all about the pain?"

"Fucking *yes*—"

"Well, you *did* teach me, Jason. But I'm not some fucking robot you can program and forget—"

"I *know* you're not, Tim—"

"No, you don't. Because if you *did* know it, you'd realize that there are some things I just can't let *stand*—"

"Hey, you two, no knife-play outside the bedroom," Dick says, and he's moving toward them with his hands up and a seriously worried look on his face—

"*Back* off, Dick. I'm sorry, but Jason and I are having this *out*," and Tim never actually turns *away* from Jason, so he doesn't see Dick blinking and staring—

"Um. Guys? Look, I'll be the *first* to say that you need to talk—"

"It's okay, Big Bird. It's—he *probably* won't actually stab me. Much."

And the corners of Tim's mouth *twitch*, which is, as far as he's concerned, a victory for the fucking *ages*—but his knife hand never so much as shifts.

"Okay. I'm gonna go... over there, by the medical supplies," Dick says, and goes.

"All right, baby bro. You're clear. What else do you need to say to me?"

"Did you think about—anyone when you were risking your life *completely* unnecessarily? No, fuck that, did you think about *me*?"

"Tim—"

*Answer* me."

Jason closes his eyes—opens them again. "No. But—"

"No fucking *buts*, Jay. What the hell do you think I would've done if I lost you?"

"I thought you *wanted* to lose me, kid—"

"'Kid.' Right. That's okay—I know that means I fucking well hit home—and it's about time."

Jason—breathes. Thinks—*tries* to think, but it's all a fucking tangle again. He *had* needed to defuse that fucking bomb, even more than he'd needed to break Kerns for putting them all *through* this shit. It's part of who he *is*—

And just as soon as he figures out the other parts, he can—

Something. Definitely fucking *something*. He stands up and heads for the changing area—

"Where are you going."

"If I'm *going* to be awake, then I'm *going* to train."

"You asshole. You complete and total *fucking* asshole—"

"I'm loving the cursing," Jason says, shrugging off his jacket and setting it on a work table—

"I love *you*. And I really want to change that right now, but I *can't*. I—you said you *needed* me, Jay!"

Jason stops, clenching his hands into fists and not striking and *not* saying the first seventeen things that pop into his brain. "I do."

"Then *act* like it—"

"*How*? What the hell do you *want* from me, Tim?" Jason turns back to face Tim, and yeah, he's looming a little, and that's fucking *impolite*, but Tim can take it. "You know me. You know me better than probably *anyone* else—including Bruce. If you want me? You have to *live* with that—"

"*You* have to live with it, too, Jason—"

"God, just give up and *call* me Jay all the time. It's my name, it's my—it's the only fucking thing I can *give*—" Jason growls and pushes a hand back through his hair. "Please."

Tim glares at him, *into* him— "Jay. Jay. You have to live with it, with *yourself*. You have to know exactly who you are—"

"*Working* on it, kid—"

"Work *faster*. Because if I were Batman, I'd fucking *bench* you for that shit last night. You 'needed' it. Fine. Think about *why*—"

"I *know* why, Tim. I died that way—"

"You died because you got beaten by a madman and his cronies until you were only fractionally conscious and *then* blown up. What's next? Letting someone beat on you so you can prove that *this* time you can handle it?"

That's—not. It's *not*. "Tim—"

"Jesus, Jay. You are *fucked* in the head. I am, *too*, and certainly Dick and Bruce have their issues, but you—I think you may very well take the fucking *cake*. You have nothing to *prove*!"

Jason crosses his arms over his chest—

"And *don't* give me that 'I'm older and wiser' bullshit. You're older and *fucked*. You. Have. Nothing. To. *Prove*—"

"Not even that I love you?"

Tim rears back, but fuck if that's *ever* not a point he wants to score. Just—

"Dammit, Tim, I do. I love you *and* I need you—"

"Then let me—God, Jay, please let me in. I need *you*. You've made me—I could never have *been* what I am now without you. I *like* who I am—for the most part—"

"You should like *all* of you—"

"God. I—*God*," Tim says, backing up and shaking his head.

"Tim?"

"Is that what it is, Jay? Does some part of you—are you *hating* yourself for some reason? I. It would explain one hell of a lot, but I don't *want* it to."

Jason bites the inside of his lip and reaches for Tim, cupping his face—

Fuck, it feels like *forever* since he's done this, since he's been *able* to do this—

"You feel so good—"

"Jay. Please—please tell me—"

"That I don't hate myself? I can't do that, Tim. I can't—ever. I've seen too much—I've *done* too much, kid. Tim. Baby... okay, no, I won't call you baby. So long as I can stop myself. I—" Jason laughs quietly and strokes Tim's cheekbone with his thumb. "I've done too much," he says, again, and then forces himself to let go—

Tim catches his hand and holds it, squeezes it hard— "Forgive yourself."

"Tim—"

"Just—do it. Please. Before you do something else too stupid for words. Before you let yourself drift on your own distractions and fucking *maunderings*, drift so far that you do something else—"

"Terrible, Tim? What happens if—" When. "What happens if Bruce can't save your parents?"

And for a moment Tim only stares at him, and God help him, but it feels *good*, feels like pressing down hard on a bruise, or running scalding hot water over an insect bite until the itch *is* a burn, until—shit, he's fucked up, but at least he knows—

Tim knows—

Tim is... laughing. Quietly at first, but it gets louder and more fucking *raucous* by the second.

"Tim, are you—okay, I know you're not *okay*, but—"

"Relax, Jay? Is that what I should do? God, a part of you actually *wants* us to fail. To 'crash and burn' as Dick quoted you to me. And you know—I could live with that if you *didn't* love me. I think—no, I know, now, that you do. Because you can't stand *yourself*, and I'm about as far from you as anyone could get—except when I'm not," Tim says, and steps close again, craning his head back to look Jason in the eye. "If Bruce fails, then you get what you want—in several different ways. You get me further *in* to this world-*class* family of ours, you get me away from the people who you think hurt me—"

"They *did* hurt you—"

Tim waves him off. "You *also* get a real good reason to run away again, don't you? Because I'll just never, ever forgive you, right?"

Fuck, fuck—Jason nods.

Tim nods back. "All right. Here: I forgive you for being a colossal fuckup who doesn't know a good thing when it's handed to him. I forgive you for being frightened all the time, because I am, too. I forgive you for all your efforts to make me even *more* scared and damaged than I already was, because I can damned well *recognize* when something's good for the Mission—"

"Tim. Tim, don't. You shouldn't—"

"Oh, I know I shouldn't," Tim says, and his smile is fucking *ghastly* and bright. "Believe me, I know. Because I've known my whole life what it *looks* like when two people can't figure out how to love each other the *right* way. I forgive you for all of it—on one condition."

He wants—he wants so fucking *much*—"I'm listening."

"*Cope*, Jay. Don't run away from yourself, anymore—even if you have to run away from me."

That... it's not— "It's not that easy. I have a lot to run away *from*."

Tim picks up Jason's hand and brings it back to his face. "Not here. If you don't want to listen to the boy whose head you *thoroughly* twisted—ask Dick. Ask Bruce... all right, no, *don't* ask Bruce. You probably think he can't see anything clearly with regards to yourself, and I can't say that I don't see where you would have a point there. But Dick isn't in love with you the way we are."

"Dick's *nice*—"

"Yes, he is. He's also Nightwing, and I strongly suspect he's as tired of your bullshit as I am."

Jason closes his eyes and nods. He can't really—

But what if he could?

It's possibly the most terrifying thought he's had in *either* of his lives, but it's there.

It's there.

Jason picks Tim up and carries him to a work-table, sweeping away a clear space before setting him down.

Tim raises an eyebrow at him.

Jason kisses him, soft and slow until Tim's arms are wrapped around his neck and then as hard as he wants, slipping his tongue in and tasting coffee and something sweeter, better—Tim pulls back.

"Training. And—time," Tim says, smiling ruefully. "I think I need to have a small breakdown with regards to what I've chosen to do with my life."

"And who you've decided to do it with?"

"That, too. I—I'll do anything for you, Jay. Except watch you self-immolate."

A part of Jason only wants to ask if Tim would kill for him, wants to see Tim rear back again, make all the hurt and damage in the kid *force* him back from the ledge he's on—protect.

But who—and *what*—would he really be protecting?

Jason shoves that part of him down into the dirt a little and nods, instead. And kisses Tim's forehead—

And lets his lips stay there for just a little while longer. "Need you."

"Have me, Jay. All of me."

Jason pushes his hands into Tim's hair and holds on until Tim pushes him back.

Training.

He spars with Dick while Tim is on the weights, taking the long, searching looks as a given until he can't stand it anymore and tells Dick *exactly* what Tim had said to him, and most of what he'd said in return.

When he's done, Dick sighs in relief and proceeds to do his best to pound Jason into the mats while Jason returns the favor. Dick has him on speed and flexibility, he has Dick on strength and nastiness, and, in the end, Tim is watching them go and very clearly taking any number of mental notes.

They call time simultaneously and make Tim attack both of them, forcing Tim to chase them all over the mats until he starts getting sloppy, which—

"Wait, wait, wait," Dick says, frowning at Tim. "You're *exhausted*, little brother."

Jason snorts. "*Try* not to make that sound like an accusation, Big Bird—he's a growing boy—"

"*Don't* make excuses for me," Tim says, and that was nearly a *growl*—"Oh, hell, I always act like my—I always get *pissy* when I'm this tired."

Uh, huh and also *right*. The only question is whether he was going to say 'mother' or 'father.' Jason lets it lie and makes a stand-down gesture at Dick as subtly as he can—

"Don't fucking treat me like a child—" Tim growls again. "I think. I think I may need—"

"A *nap*, yes," Dick says, and pounces on Tim and starts tearing at his clothes. Which—

"How many times have you had *this* fantasy, kid?"

"I *haven't*. I—Dick, I can take off—ow, that's my *head*—"

And all right, there's definitely something about watching Tim trying—and failing—to crawl away from a seriously determined Dick. Jason flanks Tim and pushes him further into Dick's arms. And legs.

It doesn't make the stripping process any more efficient, but it makes Tim make that huffing noise—

"God, that's so cute I might *die*," Dick says, grinning like a maniac and shoving his hands down Tim's shorts—

"Yeep—I—I might *stab* you—"

"Shush, you love it," Dick says, crawling *over* Tim and pinning him with his body while he works on Tim's shoes and socks.

Tim lies back and takes it.

"Aw, c'mon, baby bro! Put up a fight! We *like* it when you do."

Tim glares at him.

Jason smiles and watches the show, and then joins it when it gets to the showers, where Dick completely fails to let Tim wash himself—and completely succeeds in getting distracted while soaping Tim's tackle.

"Oh—*God*, that's—Dick, I'm *clean*—"

Jason pushes a hand into Tim's wet hair and tilts his head back for a kiss—

Another—

Tim *shouts* into Jason's mouth, shaking all over, and—yeah. *Upstairs*.

Tim has enough of his brain left to insist on robes, and Jason can't say that's a bad idea. They head straight for Dick's room, and Dick crouches in front of Tim and grabs his ankles. Oh... heh.

Jason grabs Tim's wrists and they lift him together—

"Hey, what—oh my God, I'm not *five*—"

"And that's a *good* thing, little brother," Dick says, and they swing him once—

Twice—

Onto the bed with a *healthy* bounce—

"I hate you *both*," Tim says, scrambling up onto his knees *just* in time for Jason to slam him back down to the bed with his third-favorite tackle. Tim grunts for him and scowls—

And his eyes are dancing and bright—and just a little hectic from exhaustion.

"Jay..."

"Look at you. Anyone would want you, want to *feel* you—"

"I—if you say so—"

"Oh, he *really* does," Dick says, and eyes his bedside table. "I don't think I *want* to know if there's any lubricant in there."

Jason snickers. "Schrödinger's gay porno?"

Dick flips him off. "I'm just going to steal Bruce's. I'm *okay* with the fact that I am, at base, a coward."

"Yeah, well. We *maybe* should let the kid sleep," Jason says, and makes a point of *gently* lifting Tim's arms above his head and pinning them against the comforter.

"I—really don't think I'd *get* to sleep—"

"You definitely would," Dick says. "That's just how your body *works* right about now. But... I don't know, guys. I think we could use a little recreation."

It's Dick, and he's asking for sex. "Okay, you've talked me into it. Get the slick," Jason says, and licks Tim's cheeks, one after the other—

"We just *showered*—"

"And now you're going to get *dirty* again, kid. C'mon, you know the drill."

"I. I suppose I do," Tim says, and smiles up at him just like Jason is someone good, someone worth all the fucking *pain*—

Jason shakes his head and bites the line of Tim's jaw, bites his throat and his shoulder, bites his throat *again* and then works his way down Tim's chest and abdomen. He's lean and he's *hard*, a solid if thin layer of muscle covering his ribs and giving him a respectable little wingspan for someone his size. "*Mine*."

Tim bucks and moans, and Dick had gotten him *nice* and hard, but Jason doesn't really know what he *wants*—other than every possible thing at once. He kneels up and strokes Tim's chest—

He *starts* to stroke Tim's chest, but Dick kisses him hard, kisses him down to the bed and once again crawls *over* Tim to get the maximum amount of body contact. Still, Tim can sit up and he does—and does *something* that makes Dick groan into Jason's mouth and start to *grind*. Which—

Jason *can* guess, but where would be the fun in *that*? He strokes his way down Dick's back to his ass, and there's a hard little hand *working* in Dick's cleft—circling and pushing on Dick's hole. Mm. Jason pulls out of the kiss and tugs on Dick's head until he's mouthing Jason's neck—

"I can't... this seemed like a very good idea," Tim says, sounding both pleased and a lot *younger* than he has for the last several *hours*.

God, just let him *keep* this— "Playing with Dick's ass is *always* a good idea, Tim. In fact—" Jason gives Dick a nice, hard *slap*—and then *grunts* because Dick thrusts *hard* against him—

"Oh. I. I think I want you to do that again, Jay—"

"Anything you say—"

"Hey, I—don't I get a *vote*?" And Dick sounds honestly *affronted*, but—

"You started it, Big Bird. You were—in fact—naughty as *hell*," Jason says, and starts *spanking* Dick, which is something that had occurred to him exactly *never*, but Tim's giving him that hot and *hungry* look, sweet like the first kiss of a blade and twice as dangerous—

"Oh—*fuck*," Dick says, writhing and bucking— "I usually only let *Kory* do this—"

"And *thank* you for that image, Dick, because it's sure as fuck gonna keep me warm at night," and they rearrange themselves with what feels like a lot of extra limbs until Dick is over Jason's lap and Tim is between Dick's long, pretty legs.

"I would just like to state for the record that—oh my *God*, your thumb feels good, little brother—"

"Good to know," Tim says, and *twists* his thumb a little—

Dick grunts and *starts* to get up on his knees—

And goes *right* back down again when Jason starts spanking in earnest—

"*Jesus*, you guys—uh. I hope. Hope you don't want me to be quiet—"

"Not even a *little*, Big Bird. And let me just take this—heh—*opportunity* to say that your ass is *inspiring*."

Tim hums. "You aren't a little worried about what it's inspiring you to *do*, Jay?"

"Nope. Everybody needs spankies sometimes."

Dick gasps on a laugh. "Spankies. Really. Is that what he called it—oh, *God*. I—did he ever do this to you, Tim?"

"No. And now I can't help feeling neglected—"

"Just *wait*, baby bro," Jason says, thinking about it—and then using his free hand to pull Tim in for a kiss, nice and hard and deep... and so very *much* better for the moan Tim gives him—

Dick cries *out*—

Tim pulls out of the kiss and looks Dick *over*, eyes glittering and hand fucking *pumping*.

"Why don't you get the lube and do this *right*, Tim?"

"I. Um—okay, yes," Tim says, pulling out carefully and grabbing the slick—

"*Hurry*," Dick says. "I—somehow it feels like a *year* since I've had something up me—"

Tim grunts, dick twitching as he pours kind of a *lot* of lube all over his fingers, and—

Heh. "You've never fucked anyone, Tim."

"Um. Well. You would—know," Tim says, blushing hard and stroking slick up and down Dick's cleft—"

"Ooh. Do you want to?" And Dick grins back over his shoulder and *works* his ass—

"Oh—God. I think. I kind of think—I can't last. At all," and Tim almost looks *panicked*.

Jason leans in and bites Tim's shoulder. "Not what he asked."

"I just—I have to." Tim pushes in with his *finger* instead of his thumb—

Dick groans—

"Oh, God. He's clenching, Jay. Dick, you're *clenching* around me—"

"Nnh. Yeah. Think about how that would feel on your little friend. Think about how *I* would feel—"

"Oh, *fuck*," and Tim's coming, spattering Dick's ass and Jason's hand—

Pulling out and *whimpering*—

"Ohh, little brother. Okay, maybe that was too much?" Dick laughs and turns over, sitting up and kissing Tim all over his face—

"Definitely too much," Jason says, and joins in the kiss, making it as messy as he possibly can—

"But—mmm. Something to think about for another *time*."

"Think *deeply*," and Jason grips Tim's slick hand and gets enough of the lube on his own fingers that he can reach and push two into Tim—

"Oh, *God*—fuck, please, *please*—"

"*Hell* yes," Dick says. "Let's get him hard again *fast*, little wing—"

"*On* it, Big Bird," and it's just easier and *better* to get Tim into his lap, spread him over it so he can face Dick and get kissed over and over—

God, Dick's *mouth*, and Jason knows what it's like, he's finally gotten to *have* that, but he knows it must be even more incredible for Tim. No one kisses like Dick, no one puts as much into every single *one*. And it must be...

Jason can *see* it. All those years growing up here, getting to be a man dressed in boy's clothes and dreaming of a chance to show Bruce the way it *should* work, of showing him everything, all the desire and all the *hope*—

"Can you feel it, Tim?"

Tim nods and moans into Dick's mouth, presses back against Jason's hand—

Mmm. "Just—it's *Dick*—"

Dick pulls back— "Don't *start* that, Jay—"

"Shut up and deal with how incredible you are—"

"Certainly," Dick says, and smiles kind of *meanly*. "About five minutes after you do the same."

"I."

But Dick's kissing Tim again, tugging on his hair with one hand—

And the other is stroking Jason's *working* hand, petting it and almost feeling it *up*, urging faster, more—

Until Tim is gasping and almost *shouting* into Dick's mouth, shaking all over... yeah. Jason reaches between Tim and Dick, strokes down to give Dick a friendly little squeeze and to just *touch* Tim.

Impossible to tell if he'd gotten soft, because he's hard now and getting harder, bigger and better, and Jason doesn't know if he could handle Tim fucking him without losing his mind altogether, without needing a lot more right then and there—

Dick. And the fact that Jason has a free hand is a *wonderful* fact, because Tim had gotten Dick slick *enough*—

"*Jay*—"

"Just getting you ready, Big Bird—"

Dick grins and gasps, eyes closed but tracking fast behind the lids—

"You're inside both of us," Tim says, and he sounds wondering, happy, *hungry*—

"All the birdboys I can *handle*," and Jason licks the back of Tim's neck, drags his teeth and nuzzles a little—

"You're. The one who calls himself *Jay*—"

"Ha fucking ha, Dick. Gordon gets away with that—"

"Because he's the Commissioner and you have—mm—*so* much respect for that—oh, do that again, little wing—"

"Do I need to spank you again?"

Dick opens his eyes and grins wider, licking his lips exactly like *sometimes* he knows just how dead fucking sexy he is. "I don't know. Do you?"

Jason shakes his head. "Okay, so now I want more *arms*—"

"That—would be deeply disturbing," Tim says, resting his head back against Jason's shoulder and *moving* like Dick, hips curving and grinding and making Jason's fuck that much more incredible for both of them—

"God, I need to fuck *somebody*," Jason says, wondering if it would be too weird to try to bite Tim's scalp—

"I have—a suggestion," and Tim clenches *hard* around Jason's fingers—

Dick moans and grabs Tim's face, kissing him again and not even *pausing* the motion of his hips, which—

He has Dick and Tim *on* his hands, he's fucking them both and he wants more, which means that he's either the greediest asshole in the world or extremely sane. It's a tough call, though it might be easier if he wasn't hard enough to fucking *brain* somebody—

And Dick reaches back and grabs Jason's wrist, humming into Tim's mouth before pulling back. "Pull out, Jay, let me—heh. Turn *around*."

Dick has wonderful, beautiful, awesome ideas, and Jason can *go* with them—especially when they end with Dick on his hands and knees and shaking his ass at them. "*Jesus*, Dick—"

"He'll last a little while *this* time," Dick says. "C'mon, little brother—aim and *fire*."

Tim moans and grabs Dick's hips, kneeling up and pulling away—except that Jason has to kiss him again, has to fuck that pretty mouth with his tongue while he takes another few strokes with his fingers... okay, he can cope now.

"Slick your dick for us, Tim."

"*Nnh*—okay. I can do that. I can—thank you," he says, when Jason slaps the bottle in his hand. "I just—are you sure I'm big enough? To... make this work?"

"Score one point for me *not* convincing Bruce to fuck me stupid every day," Dick says, and licks his lips. "Sometimes Kory and I get a little crazy, little brother, but... ah. You felt me. My ass isn't going to suddenly turn into *Jay's*."

"Oh, fuck off, Big Bird," and Jason snorts. "I'm not the goddamned Aparo Tunnel—"

"Fuck *on*. Me. Okay, that didn't work, but—tell me you're already nice and slick, Tim—"

"*Ohn*. I—I am now. If you're sure—"

"He's sure, all right. And—heh. *Let* me help," Jason says, wrapping his free hand around Tim and guiding—

"God. *God*, I—I can't think. It's too—much. I can't really—"

"It's okay, little brother. I *promise* you'll do fine—"

"What he said, Tim. Trust me when I say that *this*? Comes natural."

"Oh. Okay. I'll just—um. Oh my *God*, Dick, you feel—just against me—"

"I feel *you*, hard and hot... mm. Tease me a little?"

Tim grunts again and shudders, closing his eyes—and brushing Jason's hand away from himself so he can drag his dick over and *over* Dick's hole.

"Fucking *A*, that looks good," and Jason strokes Tim's hip and *forces* himself to hold his other hand still inside him—

"I think you should probably—God, Tim, like that, just like that—I think. Jason, you should fuck Tim *into* me—"

"I think you're a very—smart man. Um. It's just that I can't really handle much more in the way of... ah. Preparation. Without coming again," Tim says, biting his lip and *still* dragging his dick. Just—damn.

"You think you can take me without it, Tim?"

"God, yes—wait, that might've been my id talking. Um. Um. Please? Wait—"

Dick laughs and shoves back against Tim. "I say we go with 'yes' and you just take it *easy* on my little brother, Jay—"

"I think I can do that," Jason says, and pulls out, slicking himself up *thoroughly* before pouring some lube down Tim's cleft—

Tim jumps and *pushes*—

"Oh, *God*, Tim, yes, do it, *in* me—"

"*Dick*, I—" Tim shakes his head and pushes the rest of the way in— "God, I want to be *bigger*—"

Dick laughs and gasps. "You'll *grow*. But right now you feel perfect. Jesus, Jay, you really need to *do* this—"

"Yeah, well, you *always* come first, Big Bird. Damn, I—can you hold still, Tim?"

"Nuh. I. Maybe? Possibly. If I put my mind to it oh God *clench*—"

"Should I apologize, little brother?"

"*Never*," Tim says, sounding fervent and just a little blown. He's just going to get *more* so, and yeah, Jason has to be a part of that.

"Let go of Dick's hips for a minute and spread yourself for me, baby bro. My hands are too slick—"

"Right. Okay. Yes," and Tim does it, opening right up for him and making it fucking *necessary* to do some teasing of his own— "Oh, please, Jay, I can't—it feels too good—"

"Even just this tease?"

"I—feel sensitive. Exposed—I don't know. It's a little much," Tim says, and a part of Jason only wants to find a way to make that feeling more intense, to *push* Tim, but—

He doesn't have to. He already knows Tim will go *exactly* as far as Jason needs him to—and farther than that. And maybe it's a fucked up kind of gentle to start pushing in with his dick, to open Tim up *that* way, the best way, God, just let him—

"*Jay*—*Dick*—"

"Ooh, is he in you, little brother?"

"*Yes*—I mean, almost. Fuck, I—I'm *not* stretched enough—don't *stop*—"

Jason wraps one arm around Tim's chest and gets the other into Dick's cleft, teasing that hole he's thought about for fucking *years*—

"*Oh*, yeah," Dick says, tossing his head a little and making his pony tail shift on his back—

Tim *grabs* it and tugs—

"One *more* reason to never, ever cut my hair," Dick says, and there's a laugh in his voice. "You like that, little brother?"

"So. Silky. I—it's your *hair*," and Tim sounds like he's trying *hard* to explain something important, but that his dick is very much in the way.

Understandable. *Completely* understandable. "Tug on it again, baby bro. Let me see—yeah, like that—"

Tim whimpers and wraps Dick's hair around his fist, tugging until Dick has his head tilted back, until Dick's panting—

"*Fuck* me, little brother—"

"I—I—words not. *Yes*," Tim says, and pushes back on Jason *hard*—

"Jesus, Tim, go easy on yourself—"

"Sorry. I mean I'm not. I mean oh, *God*—" And Tim's moving, jerky and a little spastic at first, but it really doesn't take long before he's throwing his head back and just *doing* it, giving it to both of them, taking it—

Jason cups Tim's throat and kisses his cheek, squeezing a little every time Tim pulls most of the way off of him, for every time he's pushing *into* Dick—who is moaning and grinding just like maybe he *hadn't* given it up to fucking Superman a lot more than *once*—

Or, who knows, maybe the big alien pervert doesn't like that too much. Either way, Dick sounds fantastic, and Tim sounds even better, getting even more vocal than usual. He's grunting and whimpering—

He's going *faster*, and Jason's dick wants him to know that he *could* be moving, that he *should* be moving, joining the fucking party—

And it really *is* a fucking party—

"God, just like—Tim, that's so good, *so* good. Give it to me harder," Dick says, tugging against the grip Tim has on his hair and moaning louder—and clenching *hard*, judging by the way Tim freezes and shouts.

"Don't stop, Tim, c'mon, give it to us—"

"I—I don't want to *come*—"

"But *we* want you to," and Dick turns his head to grin again. "Right in me. Hot and *wet*—"

"S-stop. Please, Dick. I can't—I. I'll keep moving," Tim says, and Jason wants to try to *convince* him to let Dick talk dirty as much as he *wants*, but it's Tim's show right now, and it's not like Jason doesn't understand. The first few times he'd fucked people, he'd wanted the entire *world* to shut up so he could concentrate—

Oh, that's *Tim* clenching around him, movements stuttering but *not* stopping—

Jason squeezes Tim's chest. "Good boy. *Best* fucking boy—"

"Yours. Yours. Always. I mean that I lied. I mean—"

Jason kisses Tim's forehead and squeezes harder. "It's okay, I promise—don't stop, okay? I'm gonna need to... need to move soon—"

"God, Jay, don't hold back, don't—I want you to *move* me—"

"Fuck, hell, *listen* to the kid, Jay—"

"I thought you said go *easy*, Big Bird—"

"I was—hnh. I was clearly out of my *mind*. *Never* listen to me when I say things like that—"

Tim laughs and groans. *Jason* laughs and *rocks*, just enough to shove Tim into Dick and *keep* him there—

"Jesus *fuck*," Dick says, and— "Okay, now I sound like *you*—"

"Gonna wash your mouth out with *cock*, Dick—"

And Tim's sounds start rising, doing that *spiraling* thing that always means he's *really* close to losing it—and he's bucking now, shoving back against Jason again and again—

Dick claws at the comforter—

Tim reaches back with his free hand and grabs Jason's hip, stroking and scratching at it—"*More*—"

"Anything you *want*," Jason says, letting loose and opening *up*, and it feels like he's been waiting years for this, fucking *decades*, and part of that has to do with the fact that he's in love with the boy currently speared on his dick, but most of it is just the fact that *this* is happening, that they can all *do* this instead of brooding in their fucking separate corners.

His body knows that he has to take this while he *can*, absolutely all of it right now *and* whenever else he can get it—

Tim shouts—

Tim shouts *again*, raking his short nails over Jason's hip before grabbing Dick's again—

"God, yeah, *hold* me, little brother—"

"*Dick*—it's so good, I can't *stop*—"

"*That* means you're doin' it right, baby bro," and Jason gets his hands on *Tim's* hips, making Tim fuck Dick harder—

"God, Jay, I know that's *you*—"

"Yeah, you can—fuck, you can *feel* me—"

"*Using* me," Tim says, and it's possible that there was going to be *more* of that, but Tim's grunting and moaning, shuddering—

"Don't come yet, little brother, don't—"

"*Trying*, I—*please*, Dick, Jay—"

"I've got you," Jason says, and lets go of Tim's hip for *just* long enough to give Tim's sac a little yank—

Tim *screams*—

"*Jesus*, little wing, what—what did you *do*?"

"Heh. Slowed things *down*," and Jason emphasizes his point by making *Tim* slow down—

"God. *Fuck*," and Dick is shaking his head and shoving back against Tim—

Tim's coughing out groan after groan and *struggling* against Jason's hold—

"*Rhythm*," Jason says, and all of a sudden it's really damned hard to explain, to think of the words—but Dick *has* his rhythm, pushing back against Tim every time Jason thrusts *in*—

Another shout from Tim and he unwinds his hand from Dick's hair, stroking Dick's back, scratching at it—"*Please*—"

"Can't—I don't think I can—" Dick shakes his head again, shakes it like a fucking dog—"*Faster*, Jay—"

And he could *argue* with his body for treating that like an order from on fucking high, but he really doesn't want to. Not when it makes Tim throw his head back like that and not when it makes Dick kneel up and start *riding* Tim—

"*Oh*—" And Tim wraps his arms around Dick's chest and holds on, kissing and licking, biting and sucking—

Jason's *mouth* is watering, but he can *fix* that. He bends in and starts mouthing Tim's shoulders, the damp and salty column of his throat—can't bite there, and usually it's just something to remember in between bouts of having as much sex with Tim as he can *stand*, but right now it feels like a fucking *tragedy*—

Wait, Tim's been saying he *does* have a girlfriend—

But just to his so-called "best friend." Right. He tells himself to fucking *cope*, but how is he supposed to do that with Dick urging them on even faster and with Tim treating the—gorgeous, he *has* to admit—lines of Dick's back like a banquet with only one *guest*?

The answer is: Not.

Not at *all*, because Dick might be going faster, but *he* can go *harder*—

"*Jay*—"

He can make Tim shout for him, for *both* of them—

"*Close*. I'm—tug on me again, or—"

"*No*," Dick says, reaching back to stroke Tim. "Just let go, Tim, it's okay. I want to *feel* you—"

"But—"

"*Listen* to the man, kid," and Jason bites Tim's ear, tugs on it with his teeth, *licks*—

And listens to Tim grunt and whimper some more. Just—he has to be hurting *and* feeling like this is the best day in his life, which makes Jason ache for him all over, makes him sympathize and want Tim to have the best of everything he can fucking *manage*—

And the noises start getting closer to screams again, high-pitched and—

"God, he always sounds *terrifying* like this, little wing—"

"Heh. You mean he sounds *young*—"

"That, *too*. And I feel like this should be *stopping* me, somehow—"

"*No*," Tim says, clutching Dick harder and fucking him off-rhythm and actually kind of *brutal*—

"Oh, God, never *mind*," Dick says, laughing and moaning. "Just do *that*."

Which—a *good* fraction of Jason wants to be able to stop doing his *own* fucking, because he doesn't want to chance *interrupting* Tim giving it to Dick hard, but—

That's not gonna happen. Not now, and possibly not any of the times they wind *up* in this position—

Let it happen again, and again after that. Let it be *this*, because family can't ever be as fucked up as it feels, or—

He doesn't *know*, but at times like this he doesn't *have* to. It's just his body and his emotions, and if both of them are going a little crazy right now—

Dick is letting his mouth hang open, letting them *fuck* noise out of him—

Tim is clutching Dick like maybe he'll try to get *away*—

And Jason is giving it all he's fucking *got*, because Tim can always take it, Tim is so fucking *good*—

"*Love*—"

And that's the last thing Tim says before he goes rigid and starts *slamming* between them, back onto Jason and as deep as he can *get* into Dick—

Dick groans—"*Yes*, oh that's so *good*, little brother—"

"*Always*," Jason says, and bites the back of Tim's neck because he *has* to—

Tim slumps between them and twitches a few times— "Nnn—please?"

And that actually sounds a lot like a cry for *mercy*, which Tim never asks for—

Tim whimpers in *pain*—

"Whoa, hey, can you handle this, little brother?"

"I—could. Try—ow. Ah—"

"Time," Jason says, *forcing* his hips to still while Dick knee-walks forward and turns, pulling Tim into his arms—

"You probably need a little while. Or a *nap*," Dick says, laughing and stroking Tim's back, and—

Tim reaches for *him*, which is—still a lot. And probably will always *be* a lot. Jason takes his hand and does his own knee-walking until they're sandwiching Tim. Dick rocks them back and forth and moans softly—probably for the feel of his dick pressed against Tim's abdomen.

Jason isn't *quite* nestled in Tim's cleft, but God, it would be sweet—

"I just—sorry. I don't mean to—"

"You're *not* punking out, kid," Jason says, and kisses the top of Tim's head. "Why don't you just relax over there while Dick and I get sticky? Stickier."

"Mmm, yeah. I think that's an excellent plan," and Dick pulls back and starts *moving* Tim—

And it's probably the best possible proof of just *how* fucked-out Tim is that he doesn't make even a token protest. And once *he's* situated, Dick grins at Jason and looks him up and down.

Jason raises his eyebrows.

Dick licks his lips.

It's not *much* of a wrestling match, considering the fact that they're both trying to a) stay on the bed and b) not run Tim *over*, but it feels fantastic. Body to body, skin to skin, dick to dick until they're working together, rubbing off and just feeling each other—

"Wait, no," Dick says. "I'm about as prepped as I'm going to *get* right now, Jay. Get *in* me."

Jason thrusts *hard* against him—

"I can see that you see the wisdom of my words," Dick says, rearing up to lick Jason's chin.

"Dick, are you—"

"Yes, I really, *really* am. I—" He shakes his head and grins. "Kory *instructed* me to—and I'm quoting—'make love until your entire insane family can no longer stand anything of the kind.' And then she offered to help. And I *know* you're about to bitch at me for not taking her up on that, but I honestly believe that she and Bruce would fuse into a singularity of complete failure to cope, sucking the entire multiverse in after them. And you know I'm *right*."

Tim laughs quietly, and yeah, Jason has to laugh, too. It's *nothing* but the truth. "All right, fine, but—she's going to get impatient, eventually."

"Which is why I'm leaving you and Tim to hold the fort for a day and a night while I head up to New York—*after* we catch Ivy."

Jason kneels up and strokes Dick's chest. "We *can* handle her on our own, Big Bird—"

"Probably, yes, but still. It's the principle of the thing—or do you really think Bruce would've left if we weren't *all* here?"

Haiti, Christ. And he doesn't *want* to look at Tim right now, which means that it's the best possible idea—

And Tim is looking at *him*, eyes steady and calm and full of all the forgiveness Jason can choke on.

"Tim..."

Tim's smile is small and *hard*, but it's there. "We'll talk later, I promise. Right now... I want my show."

"*Music* to my ears," Dick says, and bucks up a few times. "C'mon, Jay. I wanna do this before—"

"You think about it?"

"*Before*—I get any older. Or *harder*. Jesus, Tim, that was fantastic, and do *not* say a word about not lasting long enough. You're an *infant*—when it comes to sexual experience."

"I—noted," Tim says, and the smile on his face quirks and gets a lot twistier.

"Don't listen to him, Tim. He's *just* old enough to forget what it *feels* like to be your age—"

"Yes, yes, I'm a conservative old *fuddy-duddy*. Now fuck some life back into me—or did you need me to beg?"

"Uh." Jason licks his lips. "We can try that?"

Dick snickers and spreads his legs, pulling his knees back to his chest and *holding* them there—

"*Jesus*, Dick—"

"Please, Jay," he says, in a voice that can *only* be described as fucking *sultry*—"Give it to me. Fuck me *hard*."

God. God. "Dick—"

"*Please*. You know I'll scream for you—*mmph*—"

Kissing Dick is *definitely* a kind of self-defense Jason is ready, willing, and able to explore at length. In *depth*—

And isn't that a good thought? Yes, yes it really is. And the only way to *do* this is with all of himself, everything he usually only gives to Tim and Bruce, everything that makes him who he *is*. The good and the bad, the hard and the sweet until Dick is moaning and trying to catch Jason's tongue to suck on it.

He teases a little—

And then a little more than that when Dick pushes his hands into Jason's hair—

"Both of you are so..." Tim sighs. "I really could watch this for hours."

Dick yanks Jason back. "But we're not going to make you *wait* hours, Tim. Are we, Jay?"

Jason licks his lips and *grinds* against him, dick to dick again and so good, so *right*—"You were always the *first*," Jason says, fucking *blurts*—

"But I wasn't the last—"

"That's not—it's not enough and it's not the *same*. I—God, Dick," Jason says, doing a one-handed push-up so he can get a hold on his dick and fucking *seek*—

"Jay—God, Jay, *missed* you—"

"I'm right here. I'm—" Not going anywhere. Not—Jason shakes his head and pushes against Dick's hole, which feels small and hot and perfect against the head of his dick—

"Don't *wait*—"

*In*, then, and Dick's shout makes Jason seize up and feel young, blundering because his body was growing too fast for his mind—

"*Jesus*, you feel good," Dick says, grinning up at him like maybe Jason had just done a fucking *trick*—

"Dick, I..."

"*Go* with it, little wing—because I'm sure as hell gonna do just that—nnf. Okay, maybe I wasn't as prepared as I *thought* I was, but—c'mon, *move*," and Dick bangs the sides of his feet against Jason's chest, *rubs* his feet against Jason's obliques—

Yeah, *move*, and doing this with an unfamiliar body—

*Feeling* this when it's not Tim—

He looks, and Tim's lips are parted just a little bit. He's focused on Dick's *face*—and looking there just makes Jason groan, because Dick's biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut— "Fuck, Dick, don't let me fucking *hurt* you—"

"I *want* it, Jay, want *you*. Show me what you give to Bruce and Tim. Show me how it *feels*," Dick says, and when he opens his eyes they're wide and *hot*, damning and begging at once—

*Ordering*—

And now he's the one with his eyes closed, because that was too close to what was going through his own mind, too *perfect*—

"God, *yes*, Jay—"

"Dick, I wanted you—so fucking *long*—"

Dick laughs and groans— "I'm right *here*," and he wraps his legs around Jason's chest and *pulls*. Having the physical *strength* to resist that is meaningless when held against his profound lack of willpower. Just—

He feels *good*, and Jason always knew that he would, that he'd *have* to—

He feels incredible, and it's Dick, the first one, the only one—

"Wanted you to *see* me—"

"God, Jay, I do, I do *now*—"

He does. And that's—

Kissing Dick is clearly one of the best ideas he's ever had, especially since it makes Tim make a soft and *appreciative* noise, makes Dick grab his hair and pull, grip—

Groan enough that Jason's tongue is buzzing—

*Rock* himself into the fuck, forcing the rhythm faster if not harder—no. He *wants* it hard, and Jason can give it to him. It's just a matter of *going* with the idea that Dick *wants* this—

Sees him now. Right. And maybe that should be frightening—too *many* people see him now—but right now it's just another part of this, another thing gripping his dick and tightening the world's sexiest rope around his spine.

There's no getting *away* from this, now. Or—there is, but isn't it already too late? Hasn't he spilled out everything that makes him—

Makes him—

Dick pulls out of the kiss and gasps, cries out sharp again and again—

"*Dick*—"

"*Jay*, God. You should—never. Stop. Fucking people," Dick says—

"I *agree*," Tim says, and his laugh sounds a little breathless, a little—

Jason looks over and Tim *is*, in fact, getting hard again. God *bless* thirteen year olds. He meets Tim's eyes and licks his lips—and fucks Dick *harder*—

"Oh my God. Oh—fuck," and Tim starts jerking himself off, wincing for the sensitivity but doing it *anyway*—

"Look at your little brother, Dick..."

"What—I—I'm busy getting my *brains* fucked out—ohh. Ooh. Yeah, do *that*, Tim—*God*, and you keep doing *that*, Jay—"

"No *problem*. God *damn*, you feel good. I bet Kory does this every chance she *gets*—"

"You should *see* the traditional Tamaranian sex toys—oh my God, so—right *there*, Jay—"

And Jason follows *orders*, because it feels too good not to, too much—

Dick throws his head back and squeezes him tighter with his legs, but—

"Put your legs down and fucking *brace*, Big Bird—"

Dick nods and does it—and *immediately* arches up and starts working his hips for it, thrust for thrust—

"Thighs," Tim says. "I—*thighs*—"

"Dick is *pretty*—"

"Neither—neither of you are paying *attention*—"

"*I* am, Dick—"

"Oh, I totally am—"

"Not to the. Important—oh my *God*, Jay, do you—no, I *know* you fuck Tim like this. I—how do you *take* it?"

"With great joy," Tim says, and starts working his dick faster. "I'm pretty much always. Um—sore. And that does not mean *stop*. Or—go off *schedule*—"

Jason laughs and moans, long and *loud*. "Don't worry, kid. Your ass is—mm. *Always* on my to-do list."

"Good to. Know. Oh, look—look at Dick—"

Jason does, and—fuck. Dick's head is thrown back and his mouth is open. His eyes are closed and his face is flushed dark and Jason has to just *stare*, because this is what Kory gets to see all the *time*, what fucking *Superman* gets to see—

And now him.

Now the *family*, and it feels like a finally, like something the whole damned multiverse *should've* been waiting for—

And Tim's starting to make those sweet, sharp little noises that always go with him getting his dick stroked. Just—he *can* hold himself up on one hand. "C'mere, Tim—"

"I—all right. I just—I don't want to *interrupt*—"

Jason lets himself groan again and adds a little twist to his hips— "You *won't*."

And Dick's making choked noises, now, rhythmic and *filthy*, and there's something about wrapping his fist around Tim's dick like *this* that makes it all hit home.

Never in this room for Dick.

Never in this *house*—not *this*, anyway, unless he'd missed something *damned* exciting—

"Hnn—hnn—*Jay*," and Dick is tossing his head back and forth—

Tim is pumping into his fist—"*Please*—"

Close, just like that, just—

"Yes, God, *please*, little wing, please don't stop, please—*fuck*—" Dick is slamming his head against the pillows—

Tim is covering Jason's hand with both of his own—

And Jason's rhythm is *completely* fucked. There *is* none for this, just the desperate slam of his hips, the slap of his sac against Dick's ass, the feel of Dick's dick dragging against his abdomen—

And the way Dick *moves*. Like every fantasy he'd never thought would actually *be* a reality, like—

God, like *himself*, and he's out of everything resembling coherency. Out—

Shuddering—

"Oh, Jay, *come* for me—"

And his eyes roll back in his head, but he can keep going, he can *make* this work—

Except that Tim twitches in his hand, vulnerable and *bright*, somehow, and knowing that he's right there, that he wants everything Jason has to give—

They both do, and Bruce, too—

God—

White-out, too soon for him to do anything about his grip, too *much* for him to do anything but feel it, fucking *live* in it—

All the loss and all the fuck-ups—

All the *good* and the way it's all through him now, impossible to *deny*—

And somewhere far away there's a shout, a touch—

And right *here* he's squeezing Tim's dick hard enough that Tim's trying to push his *hand* off, and he's so deep in Dick that he thinks he might be poking the man's uvula—

Jason shakes himself and lets *go*—

"*Oh*—you really didn't have to do that—"

"Don't—mm. Don't tease my little brother, Jay. I—it's not *nice*," Dick says, and sits up on his elbows. "I can't *believe* I didn't *come*—"

"Let's take care of that," Jason says, pulling out *carefully* and moving down, *going* down—

"Oh my *God*, I think you should say dirty things while you're doing that, Jay—"

Jason makes a questioning noise and *sucks*—

"Yes, I *know*, do it anyway," Dick says, and— "While I do *this*," and he pulls Tim over his chest—

"Oh. Dick—"

"Fuck my *throat*, little brother," and by the sound of it, Dick doesn't actually wait for that order to make it to Tim's brain before swallowing him. Which—

*Good* plan, and Jason does his own swallowing, holding his mouth open so he can grunt and drool a request to lick Dick's ass until he cries—

Dick hums *loudly*—

Tim makes a *strangled* noise and thrusts, choking Dick off—

Okay, then. Jason follows it up with the world's most incoherent request to tie Dick up and use one of Kory's toys on his throat—

And the noises get wetter and louder, chopped into *bits* by what Tim is doing—

So Jason pulls off until just the head is in his mouth and *breathes*. "Wanna watch you fuck Kory's *tits*, Big Bird—"

*Purposeful* hums—strangled *silence*—

Jason licks the slit and laughs. "Damn, I actually *wanted* to hear what you had to say to that—"

Extremely *direct* hum—

Tim gasps and *croons*—cuts himself off. "I feel. I'm hindering. Communication—"

"*Don't* stop," Jason says, and takes Dick all the way in again—and pushes his thumb into Dick's wet, *wet* hole—

Dick *bucks*—

Tim thrusts *hard* by the look of the shadows, by the sound of Dick's *gulp*—

Jason stays down for a beat—

Another—

Pulls *off*—"I wanna watch the Titans run a *train* on your sweet ass, Big Bird. And then I'll take my sloppy—heh—*sevenths*—"

And that's Dick's hand in his hair, pulling tight and yanking him back *down*, which is absolutely something he can *work* with, especially since it's an interesting challenge to try to only suck when Dick makes Tim make noise—

And then only when *Dick* makes noise—

Wet sound— "Jay, you're being *evil*. What did I ever do to *you*?"

"I'd like to point out. That. Evil. Um?"

"Oh God, sorry, little brother," and Dick starts sucking again, which—

There's something fucking *hilarious* about Dick treating the act of sucking Tim off like something it's *possible* to be distracted from, considering the fact that Tim's hands are almost certainly buried in that long, long hair and *yanking*—

Yeah, he's *laughing* around Dick's dick, choking himself something *fierce*—

And Dick is humming what sound like curses, imprecations, and *threats*.

Heh. Jason stops fucking around and fucks his mouth on Dick, fast and *serious*—and faster than that when Dick starts fucking his way in—

And in—

Dick shouts, coughs, and comes in Jason's mouth, sticky-hot and perfect. Jason hums his approval and lets some come spill out of his mouth—

And then licks Dick clean while he whimpers and gasps. When he's done—and Dick is *shaking*—Jason kneels up and checks. Yeah, Tim is still rock hard.

"C'mon, Big Bird, *do* something with that mouth of yours—"

"*God*, yes—and let me just state for the record that you taste incredible, and that I'm not *thinking* about the fact that your youth probably has something to do with it, Tim."

"Um? Thank you. I mean—*gih*—"

And whether that was for Dick's long, sweet swallow or Jason's fingers up his ass...

A mystery for the ages.

It takes about thirty seconds for Tim to start working himself between them and another ten for him to lose every word in his vocabulary that isn't "please." Jason uses that time to do everything to Tim's neck he can that won't leave obvious marks while Dick reaches up to play with Tim's nipples.

He tells Tim that he's good, that he loves him, that he loves his ass and can't wait to do him *again*—

And then he wraps his free arm around Tim's chest and holds on, breathing against Tim's ear as quietly as he can so that he can hear every shout, every terrifying cry, every *moment* of this, because it doesn't matter that he'll never forget any of this—he has to have it.

And he's not going to fuck it up again. Just—

Somehow.

Tim collapses *while* he's coming, and Jason holds him up and watches Dick swallow every drop, watches Dick watch *him* and knows that he can't give this up—

God fucking help him.

Jason holds Tim up while Dick turns back the sheets, and they flank Tim for a while, watching him fall asleep *despite* Dick alternating between telling Tim how hot he is and telling him how *cute* he is. Because Dick is now and will always *be*—Dick.

Once Tim *is* asleep, Dick turns to him and smiles wryly.

"What's up?" And Jason keeps his voice quiet and low—

"I *believe* you about how things went down in your world—and let me just say that it's already weird that this *isn't* your world—"

"Dick—"

"Yes, even with you being taller than me and nineteen, and I'm not—I'm not pushing or anything, really. Just. Letting you know. Okay?"

Jason nods and swallows back the feelings, the need and the *want*—

"Anyway, I was talking about our very littlest of perverts."

That's easier. Jason smiles. "Fucking hot, isn't he?"

"*Too*. For my blood pressure, that is. I—I really think Kory's going to want to play with him *extensively*."

"Heh. Fine by me. He *should* see how the other half lives before his girlfriend shows up. Make sure he can show her a good *time*."

"Mm. But—it's so strange to think of Tim coming to *me* when things got crazy in your world. It must've been because you weren't there—"

"Dick, seriously—*one* of the pictures in his collection? Is the one someone took with the two of you and all of your parents."

Dick waves him off. "I know, I know. But he really does love you more than anything ever. Maybe he could've felt something like that for me if I was the one who trained him, but I really don't think so. You *touch* something in him, Jay. And it is and *isn't* the way you touch me and Bruce."

"I... I think about the other Tim, sometimes. The way he'll never look at me without suspicion, the way I *hurt* him just because I couldn't deal with the fact that Bruce hadn't rolled over and died when I did. I wonder what I could've had with *him*."

Dick frowns and reaches over Tim to grip Jason's arm. "That's perfectly natural, Jay. So long as you don't think so much that you forget what you have *here*."

"You—really want me to stay," and Jason feels like an idiot for saying it, feels like he's reaching so far he's dangling over a fucking cliff— "No, forget I said that—"

"No, I don't think I will. Yes, I *do* want you to stay. We all do. And at first it was all about you filling the hole that *our* Jason left, but now it's you. It's *all* you. You're not perfect—none of us are—but you've grown into a man I love very much. And occasionally fear. And often want to get sticky with. And sometimes want to *punch*—"

"I—get the idea."

Dick squeezes his arm hard. "*Do* you, Jason? Because yeah, you *did* have it out with little brother, here, but there were a lot of heavy things in there. Things that make me *worry* about you, and what you do and don't *hear*."

And he really should've seen this coming. Just—really. "Tim seems to think you're inclined to call me on my bullshit, Big Bird?"

"Oh, I really am. First things first, though—I *know* you have a lot to atone for, and I'm not going to pretend you *haven't* done scary, terrible things. You know it, I know it, Tim knows it—and Bruce knows it, too. Deep down in the places he doesn't want to look."

"And you do?"

"Frankly? No. But I don't love you so much that I'm stupid with it, Jay. I just—here's the deal: Hating yourself doesn't get you any closer to making up for the things you've done. The *only* thing hating yourself does is isolate you from the people who care about you—"

"Maybe I *deserve* isolation—"

"We *don't*. We deserve *you*. All of you that you can give and then some. Additionally—people who hate themselves cause a whole lot of damage while they're flailing around trying to get the world to crush them. You *know* that. And you better not give me any shit about not being up on all the psych stuff we do, because I *heard* you in there with Kerns."

Jason makes a stand-down gesture. "Okay, okay. We're gonna give the kid nightmares if we keep on like this—"

"Jay—"

"I'm hearing you. I—somewhere along the way, I forgot how stupid people can get when they're... when they're down."

"And you were pretty far down."

"Farther than I thought, anyway. God, Dick, the first time Tim made me laugh... let's just say that it had been a long damned time and leave it at that."

"Oh, Jay. Some people were made to be serious all the time, but that's not *you*. It never was."

Jason pushes a hand back through his hair. "I thought it was. I thought it *should* be. I *thought*—that if I'd been harder and stronger I wouldn't have died in the first place. And I—God, Dick, I'm hearing you, all right? And I'll remember."

Dick stares at him long and *hard*, but nods after a moment. "What do you think? Nap until lunch?"

"Sounds good to me—though we should make sure Tim sleeps longer than that."

"Agreed," Dick says, and smiles down at him. "We should make sure Tim sleeps *now*."

"I *am* asleep. Mostly. I can't even open my eyes."

Jason snorts and whacks Tim's chest lightly. "Fucker."

Tim's smile is broad and a little diffuse. Sleepy. "Accurate. I like that."

"Ooh, someone's getting—heh. *Cocky*," Dick says, and tickles Tim—

Tim yelps and struggles to get away—then gives up and just starts struggling to give Dick a mild to moderate injury.

Jason lies down and closes his eyes. They'll settle down eventually.


	28. Chapter 28

Alfred guilts him and Dick into eating lunch in the dining room while Tim keeps sleeping, which is *mostly* fine, though it feels a lot like stepping into someone else's past.

The way Dick keeps looking around and shaking his head makes it clear that he's feeling the same way, which definitely helps. The food is, of course, fantastic, and Jason finds himself going for seconds and thirds. *That* turns the look on Dick's face to something amused and fond, but Jason is entirely capable of eating while flipping Dick off.

"Hey, look at this way, little wing—you might still be *growing*."

And that... Jason laughs a little. "It kinda freaked my shit out how fast I grew once Bruce took me in."

"It freaked *me* out. One minute you could've fit in the Robin suit I wore when I first started out, the next minute you were *hulking*. Tell the truth—you were glad when you outgrew that Robin suit I gave you."

Aww, Dick—Jason shakes his head. "I liked that, Big Bird. It meant more to me than I know how to say. I mean, yeah, I was glad to get bigger and stronger, but it also... well, I don't know what Bruce did with it, but *I* used to keep it in my locker downstairs, just so I could touch it, stroke the places where it had to be repaired because of something you did... anyway."

And Dick—

"You can hug me when I'm *done* eating. Jesus. How you managed to keep that instinct even living with Bruce—"

"It took *effort*. And I? Was never afraid of a little hard work," Dick says, and leans back, balancing the chair on two legs.

Jason kicks it a *little*—

Dick balances it on *one* leg—and manages to get his napkin over Jason's face for *just* long enough to move off his chair and hug Jason *hard*.

"Sometimes I can't *stand* you—"

"You sound a little like Tim when you do that. Which, let me just say—is adorable."

Jason snorts and shoves Dick off, and they go back to eating. Jason's just about done when Alfred walks in—

"Master Dick, Master Jason, there is a message from Master Bruce waiting for you in the Cave."

Lunch over. Jason and Dick stand together, and... hunh. "Hey, Al, why are there no little alarms up here for that sort of thing?"

"I believe the fact that I mentioned a mild desire to spend the better part of the next decade back in Great Britain may have played a role, sir," Alfred says, cool as you please and all but *daring* one of them to say anything about it.

Dick laughs. "Ah—noted, Alfred. Thank you."

"You are, of course, always welcome, Master Dick."

They get down to the Cave at speed, and the news is pretty much what Jason had expected, given how long it's been without an update. He wasn't able to stop the Drakes from being kidnapped, and he doesn't know where they are yet. Yet being the operative term, because he'd managed to track one of the kidnappers and is tailing the guy. There's a number where messages can be left, and Dick makes the call, giving a security-conscious update on where they are with Two-Face and Ivy while Jason tries to figure out where all the little pieces of hope and fear *are* inside him.

There hasn't been a ransom demand yet, and that can mean anything from disorganized criminals to dead hostages. Dead *parents*, and how *much* does it matter that they were useless at it?

Maybe they were always nice to dogs and gave money to charities. Maybe they treated their employees with warmth and respect. Maybe they honestly believed that Tim didn't *need* them—

"Jay," Dick says, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll tell Tim when he wakes up," Jason says. "Or—God, maybe you should do it."

"No, I think you kind of *have* to, little wing," and Dick squeezes Jason's shoulder. "And I think you know that."

Jason squeezes his eyes shut and breathes—opens them and looks Dick in the eye. "Yeah, I do. Okay, I—fuck, Dick, this would be a lot easier if I knew what I actually wanted to happen."

"You're seriously..." Dick frowns hard and squeezes harder. "Jay, you can't possibly want those people to *die*."

Jason sighs. "It's more that I want them out of the picture. And, yeah, to do some suffering for being such suck-ass parents."

"Are you seriously blaming them for making it so that Tim could *be* one of us?"

"Yeah, Dick, I *am*. Because it's never supposed to go down like that. They had all the money and opportunities anyone could ask for. They never had to worry about not having enough food or about being kicked out of their home. And they still treated Tim like a damned accessory. Like—some fucking piece of boy-shaped *furniture*. I watched them. I fucking *studied* them. And—" Jason shakes his head and brushes Dick's hand away. "Maybe you just don't know Tim well enough, yet, but he's *damaged*—"

"He's an incredible kid, Jay—"

"He doesn't think he has the right to anything. To *anything*. Or—he didn't used to. He let me *use* him, even knowing full well that I was doing it, because a part of him thinks that the best thing he can *be* is useful. God, you've seen it—parts of it, anyway. That thing where he doesn't know how attractive he is, or how much of a *gift* he's giving us... Just—I've been working on it as best I can, and Bruce has, and *you* have, without even thinking about it, but it's *there*."

"It—you don't think." Dick steps back and starts to pace, frowning hard and—yeah, chewing on his thumb.

"Say it, Dick—"

"I don't *want* to. I—hell. You told me his parents traveled a lot without him—"

"As far as I can tell? They haven't taken him on any of their trips for *years*, Dick."

Dick steps up onto Bruce's chair and makes it spin, chewing harder— "He thinks they didn't want him around—"

"*Yes*—"

"Which, since they're his parents... he thinks *no* one wants him around?"

And there's a cold feeling for that, and a hotter one which is all about wanting to protest, all about his hands wanting to grip Tim and shake— "Sometimes? I think the best thing I've ever told him is that he *could* be Robin. That he *was* in my world, and so he could be, too. The rest... I'm pretty damned sure that the fact that I love him *only* started sinking in when he realized that *I* was damaged."

"Jay, that's—that's *awful*—"

"Yeah, it is. And maybe one day I'll have the right to have it out with him about it—"

"You love each other. You *already* have the right—"

"Just—right now? His parents did the best possible job of making Tim into someone who *could* be programmed. I thought I'd have to work at it, but I really didn't. I think Tim could be one of the most dangerous people alive, because he's fucking *vulnerable* to people who tell him he can be *useful*, and the only thing that lets me fucking *sleep* at night is the fact that every universe I've seen? He winds up with *us* instead of some damned supervillain."

Dick grunts and jumps down from the chair, pacing again and switching thumbs, switching again, pacing in a more complicated pattern—stopping. "We just have to love him, I think."

Jason laughs. "Yeah, well, I'm on with that plan."

"You could've—if you're right, and I have to admit that I *do* see where you're coming from, then you really could've *fucked* Tim, Jay—"

"Yeah, I..." Jason pushes a hand back through his hair. "I know that, too."

"How *do* you think he's going to react if he loses his parents?"

And Jason *wants* to say that he doesn't know, but. "He'll go on. We'll *have* to all but sit on him to keep him from going out every night, and I'll have to probably push him to get him to own the fact that he *can't* actually forgive me for everything—"

"Jay, he already said he *does* forgive you—"

"Yeah, *but*, Dick. That was with all the hope and belief in Batman, all the *possibility* that lives in the idea that Batman's on the case, and will do everything in his considerable fucking power to make everything work out. I've done a whole lot to make sure he knows that Bruce is just a man, but he's spent his *life* believing in Batman and Robin, and I just... it's gonna hurt him."

"It's not that I don't see that, but..." Dick sighs and punches his own palm once, twice. "I want you to tell me that he'll be all right, Jay."

"He will be. He's strong, and there's something hard in him that no one will ever be able to touch, Dick. It's fucked up that it's there—but it's part of what makes him so *good*."

"Okay. I—okay. Which one of us is going to finish going through all the likely places for Ivy to hole up and which one of us is going to call the Commissioner to find out what's going on in the daylight world?"

"I'll hit the computers, you make the call," Jason says, and sits in the big chair. The chair that's just not *that* big *anymore*.

"Done," and Dick heads for the secure phone.

Jason spends the next two hours giving the hairy eyeball to every plant-related property in Gotham that isn't a community garden—too open—or a flower shop—against Ivy's religion. There aren't all *that* many, and it's summer—the parks would *have* to pretty damned tempting. In another year or two, Ivy will have changed her biochemistry enough that she'll actually start going somewhat *dormant* in the winter months. Right now, she's still human enough to be able to go pretty much anywhere and *do* pretty much *anything*.

Jason rubs his eyes and—movement. That resolves into Tim bringing him a mug of coffee and a smile that's only small if you *don't* look into his eyes. And that...

Jason reaches out to drag Tim into his lap—stops. Damn.

Tim raises an eyebrow, but there's something a lot darker and younger than curiosity in his eyes.

And Jason has to tell him. "Tim, I—first off, we don't *know* anything, and Bruce has an eye on one of the kidnappers—"

"They were taken."

Jason nods.

Tim frowns and looks down, but Jason can still see his eyes tracking back and forth— "For all we know... they're okay."

"Yes."

"They're worth... a great deal of money. That would almost certainly make the kidnappers careful, and. And."

"Yes," Jason says again, giving up and resting his hands on Tim's shoulders. "Bruce is on it."

"Batman is. And Batman doesn't give up," Tim says, nodding and setting the coffee down next to the keyboard. "If you'd like, I could take over hunting down potential bases for Ivy."

Because Tim will go *on*, right up until he can't. And maybe a good, solid hour *after* that. Jason shakes his head. "You should work with Dick a little more, while he's here."

"Is he—he said he wouldn't go until Ivy was captured. Before," and maybe that's a little bit of panic? Tim *would* understand that Dick will almost certainly get swallowed up in Titans missions and the life he has in New York...

"Yeah, and he will, but—"

"But you don't think I should be around you right now," Tim says, and nods just as if Jason had already said yes.

"I don't want you driving yourself crazy—"

"By telling myself I forgive you when I'm 'really' incredibly angry?"

Jason winces. "That's—pretty much it, yeah."

"I anticipated that you'd feel that way, and I'd be lying if I said there wasn't an element of that," Tim says, and reaches out to stroke Jason's cheek with his fingertips. "You've forced me to really *think* about my feelings for my parents. On the one hand, there's the fact that they're human beings who've never done anything to cause injury to another person or even so much as committed a crime. On the other hand, there's the fact—the one I'm currently having a difficult time coming to terms with—that my relationship with them has caused me some degree of psychological... difficulty. *Just* looking at those two things, I'm left with the question of how much of this situation is a result of you wanting to punish them out of a misguided—and rather over the top—desire to avenge me versus you wanting to punish—and *shape*—me into the Robin you think I need to be. Will you answer?"

The wince is going *nowhere*, but— "Yeah, I will. I won't deny that a lot of the things I've said and done to you are all about twisting you into a new shape, but this—this isn't part of it," Jason says, only somewhat shocked to discover that it's true. "If that *was* the case, I would've never let them walk into the fire."

This time when Tim raises his eyebrow, the curiosity is completely honest. A part of Jason—a part that knows Bruce very, very well—honestly wants Tim to figure it out on his own, wants to *see* that brain working and live in it a little, wants to *teach*—

But now is anything but the time. "If you think about it... it would've been really counterproductive, Tim. If anything, I set them up to be *martyrs*, and gave you a really *good* reason to idealize them and fight back any difficult or uncomfortable memories you had—"

"It didn't work that way—"

"I couldn't have predicted that it wouldn't. I'm not *shocked* that it didn't work that way, but, in the end, you're *incredibly* young and have a lot invested in thinking of them as good people, because you care about them *and* because you've built a good chunk of your identity on what you know about them and what it means that they treated you... the way they did."

Tim frowns. "So you're saying that if you'd *planned* it, you would've... what? Shoved my face into all the things you think I don't want to deal with?"

Jason waves a hand and fights back the urge to smile ruefully. "I probably would've tried to be more subtle than that, and I probably would've failed. But yeah, pretty much. Tim... to be honest? It would pop up in my mind every few days, and sometimes more often than that. And I would shove it right back down again because I couldn't deal with it... or what it meant that it popped up whenever I started thinking about how much I cared about you."

Tim nods and looks away again, clenching and unclenching his hands—he stops and sighs. "It would be easier if it wasn't so... messy."

"Maybe."

"No. It would be, because then I would be able to see one distinct flaw in you and could then decide how I was going to handle it."

"And maybe how to handle me?"

Tim smiles wryly. "Isn't that what you trained me to do? Granted, you were more interested in getting me to the point where I could handle *Bruce*, but surely you saw the urge toward manipulation in me—"

"I saw the *potential*. And I had a lot of fucked up assumptions about how the Tim in my world dealt with Bruce. If I'd *ever* thought about you 'handling' me, I probably would've tried a lot harder to hold myself back."

"You... all of this... it makes it seems like you tripped and *fell* into all of this, Jay."

"Yeah, well, sometimes? I think the whole adolescent awkwardness thing just went straight to my *brain* after I worked it out of my body."

"You had—you had *plans*."

"I did. And most of them were seriously fucked up. I—I wouldn't make them again, now, Tim," Jason says, and feels something tear in him, something that was holding a whole lot of *emotion* back, and now it's all through him. Filling him up and making him *feel* it. And know it.

But Tim looks both scared and *hurt*, and that—

"What is it, Tim? Tell me, please—"

"You wouldn't have trained me? You—you *picked* me—"

"Jesus, no, it's not like that. I would've done it *differently*, Tim. I wouldn't have been such a fucking *asshole* about it. And maybe I would've also given some fucking *thought* to how I was treating you—sexually."

"No. No. That was—you know I *wanted*—"

"Except when you didn't. Except when you were *scared* and I just ran right over you—"

"I *like* that you did. It's—it's a good thing, because you didn't let me get all wrapped *up* in my fear. I don't *regret*—and no, *don't* say anything about how maybe I *should* regret it. Look what you *gave* me, Jay."

God. "It's—it's really hard not to think about the things I *took*, baby bro. God, I was better at doing this kind of thing when I was *fourteen*. Back then, I never hurt anyone, and I was fucking *careful*—"

"And you never *gave* any of those other people yourself," Tim says, and he sounds both desperate and *sure*. "You—don't you see, Jay? You let me *have* you, and you didn't hold anything back, and that—that's what I fell in love with. And now you want to be more *careful*. You want to be gentle and good and caring—and that's all right, but only in *moderation*."

Jason snorts. He really can't *help* it—

"I'm *serious*—"

He grabs Tim's hands and pulls him close until their knees are bumping—Tim *immediately* spreads his legs around Jason's thigh, which feels exactly as good as it should. "I know you're serious. And that's—you've gotta see how fucked up that is—"

"Just—" Tim sucks in a breath and squeezes Jason's hands. "Don't treat me like I'm—fragile or something. Don't treat me like I'm some kind of—of broken *vase* held together with glue and fucking *hope*. I'm a *person*, Jay—"

"I'm *not* gonna forget that again—"

"And—maybe I *am* a mess. Maybe there are things about me that are just... too wrong. But I'm not crazy and I'm not asking you to go back to the days when you would just walk all over me. We could be screwed up *together*."

"That's—well, that's *kind* of what I want—"

Tim laughs, high and sharp and just a little wild. "They're all like this, aren't they? The other heroes?"

"They all have *different* issues, but... yeah. From what I've seen. Make Dick give you the full breakdown on the Titans someday. He won't *want* to, because they *are* his other family, but he knows you'll need to know eventually. The stuff I could tell you about Roy... anyway. Look at it this way: it's *not* normal to want to risk your life every night to fight against people who are incredibly powerful and dangerous—and to want to do it for free, and without the law backing you up. You've pretty much gotta go with the idea that people who have the issues to do that might just have a few other issues, too."

And Tim's smile is twisted. "There you go again, destroying my childhood innocence."

Jason winces again—

"No, Jay. You have to. I *do* need to know all of this. And, in the end, innocence didn't do all that much *for* me. I—to get back to where we started, I'll be sure to let you know when I'm too angry to let you touch me. I'm not going to pretend I'm more together than I am about this, or about anything else—and you're to blame or possibly thank for that."

Yeah, *that*. "Because I've given you a great big three-dimensional view of all the bad shit that can happen when people do things that way."

"Exactly," Tim says, twisting his hands free and bringing both of them to Jason's face. "You see? You never *stop* training me."


	29. Chapter 29

It's barely past sundown when they all arrive on the roof of Central. The signal isn't on, but Gordon had told Dick to come by to help coordinate the planthunt. There's a pretty impressive bloodstain where Two-Face had fallen the night before, and Jason catches Tim looking it over thoughtfully, and—

Dick goes right *to* Gordon, taking his hand in both of his own. "There was no time for this last night, Commissioner, but I wanted to say that I'm sorry we weren't able to end things with Dent—"

"More neatly, Nightwing?" Gordon shakes his head and takes his hand back. "Save your breath, son. It was going to happen one of these days, and I don't think Harvey would've had it any other way. Right now, he's cuffed to a gurney in the St. Sebastian's ICU, and there he's going to stay until he decides whether he'll live or die. Someone should... talk to Bruce Wayne, though. That man never gave up on Harvey. Maybe *couldn't* give up on him."

Rebuke or not? It makes *Dick* wince impressively—

And Gordon claps him on the shoulder. "Nightwing. What've you got for me?"

Dick pulls his game face back on. "The plan is to split up and investigate some of the places she might pick to hide out—and come down. The doctors at Arkham had her on some pretty serious psych meds, and, unless her body chemistry is completely unpredictable, she should be feeling pretty awful right about now."

Gordon nods. "The force is stung after last night. Stung *hard*. Give our people—"

Tim steps up with a list of some of the possibles and hands it to Gordon, who grunts and nods.

"Thank you, Robin. I take it you'll be joining the hunt, tonight?"

"With backup," Tim says, and his voice is probably as low as he can manage to keep it. It makes him sound like he has a head cold, but the Robin voice has gotta come from somewhere.

"Tell your men to wear face masks and gloves, Commissioner," Dick says. "I can't stress enough how important that is—or how much it might not help."

"Noted, Nightwing. For our part, the mayor's office has been getting some angry letters and phone calls about local businesses from an environmentalist group that had some of their more radical members taken in by the Feds out in Oregon. I don't know if that'll help anything, but it's the kind of thing *we* can't do without warrants, and not even our friends on the bench could make one of those do anything but stink to high heaven," and Gordon pulls out a sheet of his own that's probably full of the kind of information the cops aren't technically allowed to collect.

"We'll look into it," Dick says, and then looks at *him*—

"I think that covers things," Jason says. "Any word on how Kerns got the explosives?"

Gordon pulls out a cigar and taps it against his palm. "The U.S. military are firm believers in interagency communication, son. And I think you know exactly what that means."

A whole lot of nothing, thoroughly padded with bullshit. Jason nods, and they fly.

Tim's riding with him tonight, taking the bitch seat just in case they wind up doing anything that requires the kind of power *his* bike just doesn't have, and...

He's the kind of quiet that means he's thinking hard, and that one of the things he *is* thinking is that he shouldn't speak up. "Say it, Robin."

Tim hums a laugh. "I think I must move more quietly than I think."

"You really, really do. Give."

"Two things. First—is the Commissioner mad at us about Two-Face?"

"Tough call. Back in the day, Two-Face was almost his *partner*, and was definitely a friend. The two of them and Batman had a whole thing with truth, justice, and the Gotham way, and the two of them and *Bruce* had the same—kind of. Then again, Gordon stopped sticking his neck out for the guy after the *first* time he broke out and started offing people. *Bruce*—is a lot more forgiving. Gordon doesn't really take kindly to people who don't take the opportunity to fix their lives on their own."

"So you would say...?"

"I think he would've preferred it if Batman *was* there, because probably *B* would've found a way to get the gun out of Two-Face's hand before Gordon had to shoot. I *also* think that he doesn't blame us, as opposed to thinking we're a lot more green than he wants us to be."

"All right, that makes sense. What do you think you did wrong in terms of Two-Face?"

"Easy—I should've gone for a stab to the shoulder instead of a slash to the wrist. I was at a disadvantage by having to come through the door blind, and Two-Face *was* a pretty decent athlete when he was young... but there's no way I shouldn't have gotten the gun out of his hands."

"You would've stabbed his... shoulder?"

Jason smiles and wishes Tim could *see* it. "Yeah, I would've. There's just something about having Gordon *right* there that makes me want to behave."

Tim hums. "I suppose I can see that... though mostly as a hypothetical based on the idea that prolonged exposure to the man would lead me to feel much the same."

And that... hunh. "You saying you would've gone for the stab?"

"One, assailant is prone to bouts of extreme violence. Two, assailant is over a foot taller than I am, with a history of athleticism. Three, assailant has a hostage, and thus needs to be *stopped* as much or more as he needs to be dissuaded. Four, assailant is far more likely to survive a wound to the shoulder than one of any other provenance—as you readily if unwittingly demonstrated. A stab to the shoulder followed by a slash above the eyes, *then* followed by staff-work—if necessary."

Jason's not sure he's ever felt the urge to *purr* before—including those times when Bruce has been stroking him after a truly phenomenal fuck—but he does *now*. "You, my little friend, are wonderful in every way."

"You sound like—N."

"Heh. It happens. Especially when I spend enough time around him. His whole *world*-view is incredibly tempting, when you think about it."

Another hum, more thoughtful this time. "I can see that, too. I'm just not sure I could ever... go there."

Interesting. "What's stopping you?"

"He... he believes in love. The *power* of love, and the inherent good of sharing that love around."

"So do I, when it comes right down to it," Jason says, and checks his mental chart—ten blocks from their first possible.

"Yes, but you draw *boundaries*. Rather severe ones, not to put too fine a point on it. And... well, I do, too. I'm not sure how much sympathy I'd have for people who sympathize with people who kill innocents."

Gordon, again. Well... "No one can help who they love, kid."

"'Kid' again. Hm."

Jason snorts. "Don't give me that 'hm.' You can't *tell* me you've never wished you didn't love me."

Tim's response to that is to squeeze him and press closer.

"Wishes aren't important?"

"I acknowledge that you may have a point about the futility of trying to have *perfect* control over one's emotions... but I'll table final judgment until such time as I fall for a supervillain."

"You *do* that, baby bro. Or better yet? Don't."

Tim gives him one last hum and curls his fingers in against his abdomen, pressing hard enough that he can *almost* feel it, as opposed to just hearing the slight scratch of Tim's gauntlets against his shirt.

They run through their list of possible hideouts quickly, and Jason makes them take a break while he switches his radio to pick up the police scanner. A handful of small crimes being taken care of, and no word on Ivy whatsoever.

Dick would've called *in* if he had anything, but—

"J to N."

"Here, with a whole lot of dead plants—none of which look exciting enough to be Ivy's."

"Right. Why don't you trail Gordon's people while R and I take a look at those environmentalists?"

"Not really Ivy's *style*, J..."

"Yeah, I know, but it's either that or start hitting the parks, and there's no way we go in there as *anything* but our own little army."

"I take it she'd claimed one of the parks for her own in your world?"

"Yeah. Not *yet*, timeline-wise, but..."

"I hear you, J. Report when you can and I'll do the same. N out."

Jason taps his comm back to receive-only and steals one of Tim's energy bars—and thinks about using one of his pockets to carry his own. Just how long *is* he going to keep up this half-in, half-out thing, anyway?

Long enough to get *out*, a part of him says.

The rest of him is just staring out at him from behind his eyes and looking seriously impatient. Right.

They fly, finding a mugging in progress. Jason sees the flash of a gun while they're still on the bike, but—

"Take him," he says, and Tim doesn't hesitate even to ask if Jason's sure, just tosses two shuriken before he's off the bike—

One sends the gun flying, the other sticks in the asshole's wrist—

Right up until Tim jabs him there with the staff—

A bone-breaking blow to the jaw, another to the guy's left knee—

He's down, and Tim knocks him out for good measure before zip-stripping him. The would-be victim's gone before Tim can check him out, which says a whole *hell* of a lot for the guy's reflexes, considering the whole thing had taken seconds.

Jason lifts his visor to give Tim a smile, a little bit of applause—

Tim gives him the student-to-sensei bow and then jogs up to take his place on the bike again, calling in the police using his head-cold voice as Jason gets the bike going again.

When he's done—

"Any suggestions?"

"Two. It's fine for you to use multiple shuriken to hedge your bets at this point, but remember there's only so many of them you can carry on any given night, and it's not like you can reuse them—"

"Disinfectant wipes in the belt?"

"Not fool-proof *enough*, Robin."

"Hm. I see—"

"*Keep* hedging your bets for now. There's going to be a time when you need to work on your own, without a partner to back up your supplies, and you can try being skimpy when you're *sure* there are no serious weapons around, but, for now, you've got some slack."

"I. All right. And I understand that you meant that strongly. What was the other suggestion?"

"More of a heads-up, really," Jason says, and takes them up over seventy as they get out of midtown. "You know head-injuries are dangerous. *I* have no problem with you doling them out even when your targets are down—hell, I *approve*—"

"But... others would prefer I save them for when they're necessary. I understand." Tim shifts a little. "Perhaps I'll save them for those times when a greater degree of punishment seems... warranted."

His boy. "And for whenever you don't want to use your knife—for any reason."

"Noted."

The environmentalists they're after announce their presence in the neighborhood by there being *two* community gardens and a co-op that looks about this close to bankruptcy. Places like that just don't thrive in neighborhoods that haven't been gentrified, and this part of Gotham won't see that kind of renewal anytime soon. Still, there's a light on in their little storefront headquarters, and Jason walks right in, Tim behind him.

Two granola types are visible—a man and a woman who could've been the older sister of the activist chick he'd hooked up with in that other world. In that other life.

Their jaws drop when they look up, and Jason offers one of the smiles he always thought of as friendly until Bruce had disabused him of that notion—

Another world, the *same* life.

Jason sits on the woman's desk and notes with a fraction of his awareness that Tim's moving into a position where he could drop the man in almost the same movement he'd have to use to extend his staff.

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"Um. Who *are* you?"

"You can call me J," and Jason picks up the document she's signing— "Beryl. I always liked that name. I hope you're not gonna make things difficult for us tonight, Beryl."

"We haven't committed any crimes and we do *not* recognize the activities of extralegal vigilantes," the man says, stepping up out of his chair—

And getting blocked from coming any closer by Tim's staff.

"Heh. See, that? Is being difficult. Be cool, Mr. and Mrs. Hemp America. We don't care about your weed, your shrooms, or whatever else you've got stashed back in your crash pads," Jason says, picking up one of Beryl's pens and making it dance over his fingers. "We just want information."

"Don't *talk* to him, Beryl! They work for the fascists—"

"Actually," Tim says, "Batman has some ideas that are frankly socialist. Just to be accurate about things."

Jason rubs at his upper lip with his index finger, then flips up his lenses so that Beryl can see the laugh—

"Oh. You have very pretty eyes."

"People are *always* tellin' me that, Beryl," and he flips the lenses back down. "Now I gave you a secret—how 'bout you return the favor?" This time, the smile he gives is just a *little* wet—

And Beryl blushes attractively. Probably *hates* herself for it, but there you go.

Jason smiles a little wider. "Pretty please?"

She stares at him long and hard and he stares right back, noting not at *all* absently that Mr. Hemp did something that made Tim feel a need to tap his chest twice with the staff. "Oh. Okay. What do you want to know? I mean, I'll tell you—if I know. If I can! I mean."

"You guys have been sending some nasty letters. If your goal was to get more attention? You've got it."

"Proof! I *knew* they were watching us, Beryl! I told you—"

"Sit *down*, Marcus. They're not the cops! The fact that *they're* here means that the cops don't even think they can make a case against us," Beryl says, looking flustered and *sounding* like that's an argument she and Marcus have been having for a fair amount of time.

"That's just right. I mean, I'd think twice before you guys did more than planting gardens and protesting high-rises," Jason says, "but there's nothing to worry about. Unless, of course, you're harboring fugitives—"

"Oh, sure, bring up *that* old wheeze," Marcus said. "None of the people involved in those fire-bombings out west were affiliated with our group. Though I think they had the right idea."

"You're actually talking about having sympathy for bombers. After last night. I—that's almost impressive," Tim says, apparently incredulous enough to lose the head-cold voice.

Marcus' blush is a lot less attractive, though Jason has to admit he has a nice mouth. He turns back to Beryl. "The fugitive in question—"

"Is Poison Ivy," Beryl says. "Right?"

Jason nods.

"She hasn't contacted us or... anything like that. Obviously a lot of environmental action groups have sympathy for her... I suppose you would call it a *cause*—"

"Actually," Jason says, and raises his eyebrows behind the mask. "We call it an obsession—"

"That's because you're an animal kingdom supremacist," Marcus says, and then makes the mistake of trying to grab Tim's staff, which—

Jason winces for the guy, but Tim doesn't break anything on him, as opposed to bruising his face, arms, and shins.

Marcus goes down whimpering, Beryl starts to stand—

Jason raises a hand. "He'll be okay. Robin's feeling friendly tonight. So far."

"I—we really don't know *anything* about Poison Ivy, J," Beryl says, looking honestly worried. "I mean, I suppose it's possible she might be attracted to one or more of our properties, but—"

"Properties? You guys have some real estate we don't know about?"

"I—um." Beryl is looking at Tim, who is currently spinning his staff and giving Marcus the full effect of the blank lenses on his mask. He can really rock that dead *and* menacing look for a little guy, or...

In some ways, Jason thinks, the fact that he *is* so small works for him, the way it had maybe worked for him when *he* was small—if probably never for Dick. The whole 'psycho kid' routine can work wonders on the average adult. He turns back to Beryl. "Like I said, we have no beef with your organization at the moment, and no interest in ratting you out to the cops for a warehouse full of pot plants—"

"It's—nothing like that," she says. "Well, all right, it's *sort* of like that. We have a few unofficial members. People who provide money and support but who don't want their names on any of the mailing lists and who won't ever show up for rallies because they need to protect their names for one reason or another—"

"*Cowards*," Marcus says, and—

Tim doesn't knock any of his teeth out, but he only holds himself back from it by a couple of millimeters. Heh.

"Tell us about *them*," Jason says.

"In detail, please," Tim says, and fakes a strike to Marcus' groin, another to his head, and another to his left knee.

"Um. Right," and Beryl gives them a few—interesting—names. Some seriously wealthy Gothamites—mostly on the young side—who've been funneling money to the organization *off* the books.

Which just means that they *want* the ecoterrorist wing to make a little more noise.

There are a handful of properties down by the docks which they'll check out, but Jason already knows they'll find a couple of buildings filled with lush, healthy marijuana plants there. His *gut* is telling him to go for the rich idiots *first*, though, and a quick chat with Dick gives them the go-ahead to do just that. Off to the fashionable neighborhoods then, and their first stop is an excellent opportunity for Tim to practice his house-breaking techniques.

Jason sits back and watches him disable one of the more impressive security systems on the market—

"You know, it's actually disturbing how easy this is to do," Tim says, while shutting down motion detectors and alarms.

"Heh. No such thing as *safe*, baby bro."

"I *know* that—really, I do. Still, there's something actively offensive to me about the fact that these people would've been more secure with a dozen sword-wielding men and a moat."

All those science-fiction novels... well. Jason claps Tim on the shoulder. "You just reminded me that none of us have taught you how to fence, yet. You'll like it—it comes in handy basically never, and it can make pretty much anyone look incredibly hot."

Tim snorts. "That *doesn't* sound like my sort of... but. *You* would be teaching me?"

"And B—who makes it look easy *and* like pornography. Trust me—it feels like a little vacation that has the added benefit of improving your balance and speed," Jason says, and they rappel down from the roof and into the townhouse, where everything is dark and quiet.

"I'll... take your word for it."

Jason grins and moves for the bedrooms, finding the master suite first—obvious by the size and view of the park—and moving on until...

There.

The bedroom of one Ashton Bell III has a pretty sizeable number of—uncommon, by Jason's informed *enough* judgment—plants, and he keeps it humid as all hell.

The smell, though... hunh.

The smell is less *green* than kind of funky. The smell of rot, almost, and Jason's just about to start wondering if he should have a rebreather in when Tim points to a big, gorgeous-looking orchid and pinches his nose shut.

"Really?"

"I learned about it in earth sciences," Tim whispers and then raises and eyebrow, nodding toward the bed.

Jason nods back and gives Tim the go gesture—

Which leads to Tim leaping onto the bed, kneeling on Ashton's arms, yanking his head up by the hair, and pointing the tip of his knife at Ashton's eye. "Quiet."

"Who *are* you?"

"My name is Robin. My associate's name is J. You're going to tell us about your ecoterrorist funding activities."

Predictably, Ashton slumps, tension leaving his body in a rush. Jason has yet to meet anyone with a Roman numeral after his name who puts up much of a fight when they can *see* they're facing a superior force.

Jason walks over to lean against the wall and cleans his fingernails with his own knife.

"I—I just give money," Ashton says. "I haven't *done* anything—"

"Your money buys explosives and training for people who endanger the lives of others. As such," Tim says, and brings his knife a little closer, "I don't like you very much."

Ashton swallows and *focuses* on the knife. "What. What do you want to know?"

"Poison Ivy. You think of her as a hero—"

"She's a *freedom* fighter—"

"She's a murderer, and she's going back to Arkham. The only question is whether or not she'll do it before some police officer has to shoot her—and whether you'll be known as someone who helps the authorities or as the bitch of a man with tattoos on his neck."

Jason coughs out a laugh and tucks his knife away. "Now, now, Robin—some people *like* that sort of thing."

"Mm. What about you, Ashton? Do you like taking it up the ass? You'd probably have your best chance of survival with the so-called Aryan Brotherhood. Sure, they'll pass you around and beat the shit out of you on general principle—and blackmail your parents to keep you alive—"

"Okay! Okay! I—um. I might know where she is."

"'Might' doesn't make me feel very friendly, Ashton," and Tim brushes at Ashton's eyelashes with the blade of the knife.

"I'm serious! I haven't even *seen* her," Ashton says, and it's just one of those things about this life that he actually sounds *disappointed*.

"Really," Tim says, and shifts enough to *really* dig his knees in against the guy's forearms. "Who's keeping her away from her adoring public?"

"It's not—he's not a bad guy. *I'm* not a bad guy—*mmph*—*mmph*!"

It really is some kind of beautiful to watch Tim covering Ashton's mouth and notching his ears. Just—

Most people would just slice a cheek, or maybe bring the knife to the guy's throat. Tim, though...

Tim is always, *always* original. And when he's done, and the noises are down to muffled whimpers—

"I'm going to move my hand now, Ashton. If you have some idea of what's good for you, you'll give us a name and as many addresses as you know. And then you'll really *think* about the fact that people like us are watching you—and *all* of your bank accounts—before you write another check. Do you understand me?"

Ashton nods frantically, blood spattering the sheets.

Tim moves his hand—

Ashton spills like a piñata, nice and *detailed*. The fact that the name is actually the third on the list of possibles Beryl had given them *might* be making Tim feel guilty for the ear-thing... but Jason doesn't think so.

Not if the way he's making the knife dance in front of Ashton's eyes is any sort of thing to go by.

They hit the road—for Bristol.

Which is about as funny as you can *get* in Gotham without horrible fucking laugh-toxins and psychotic clowns, but it's not like Ivy *hasn't* worked the burbs before. Hell, she'd actually gotten down to Pennsylvania once or twice. If there's a rich fuck running a company that pollutes or hurts natural terrain in *any* way, then Ivy's damned well going to be there *eventually*—it's just how she works.

This, though...

Bradley Dumont's parents are out of town until next month, so he has the whole mansion—hell, maybe he calls it a manor, *too*—to himself. That's a lot of damned places for Ivy to hide—including the grounds on a nice warm night like this one—so Jason calls in the cavalry.

"How sure are we that this Dumont guy is harboring Ivy?"

"Call it seventy percent, Big Bird. Our buddy Ashton wasn't all that bright, but he *was* obsessed enough to have kept an eye on the situation. He has a hard-on for the bitch."

"Does he just not *know* that Ivy can rot it *off*?"

Jason snickers and pulls the bike into a stand of woods about a quarter mile up the—private—road to the Dumont's place. "I didn't get that far in depth. R had him crying too hard to be very clear, anyway."

"And you couldn't be prouder," Dick says, sounding fond and amused. "Okay, I'm letting the Commissioner know—he'll have better luck telling the locals to stay out of it than we would."

"Right. *Are* we gonna wait for Gordon's boys and girls?"

"Not a chance, little wing. I'm about fifteen minutes out—wait for *me*, and then we'll all go in. Make sure little brother has—"

"His haz-mat gear on right. I *know*."

"Sorry," Dick says, sounding rueful. "I'm still getting the hang of this whole 'taking point in *Gotham*' thing."

"You'll figure it out sooner or later—J out." He turns to look at Tim, and—he's got the rebreather in—though not functioning just yet—his mask has that seriously *uncomfortable* look that means he's just gummed it down even more thoroughly than usual, and he's holding the hood like he's not sure whether he should put it on. "What's up, baby bro?"

"It's a *flame* hood. Doesn't she hate fire?"

"Like B hates guns. But you know it's to protect your skin."

"*You* don't have anything like that."

Jason pulls out his own hood and raises his eyebrows.

"I—all right. It makes me look like a bright red penis."

Jason snorts. "You know, I *hadn't* been thinking about it that way, but... yeah, you're right," he says, and puts on his hood. "Put it on, anyway. Neither N nor I are as good at on-the-fly poison diagnoses as B is."

Tim sighs and does it. "Are we waiting here for Nightwing?"

"Pretty much, though I'm planning to scout ahead a bit. Feeling antsy?"

"There's a certain... there's an itch to it, I suppose. I... we *will* get a call if B finds anything and calls in, right?"

That. Damn. Jason cups Tim's shoulders and squeezes. "Normally? No. But for this... yeah, we will."

Tim nods and looks down. "I can't decide if that makes the silence better or worse."

"Robin..."

"I also can't decide if I want... if I *should* want your comfort."

"I know. And I'm—"

"You're *not* sorry, so don't say it," Tim says, looking up again. "Please."

"I *am* sorry that you're hurting, and for being the cause of it. And I—I kind of need you to believe that."

Tim's jaw gets tight, and Jason's pretty sure that he's blinking rapidly behind the mask. "I—all right. You should go ahead and scout. I'll stay by the bikes—"

"No, scout with me. N will see the bikes when he gets here and he'll know what we're doing. I'll head into the woody areas, you stick by the road."

"Oh. I..." Tim's smile is bright and brief and a little wild.

And Jason *knows* it to the bone. "Yeah. You're *Robin*."

"'The Boy Wonder.' I—like that. A lot."

"Well, right now you're kind of the Boy *Foreskin*, but *go* with that idea."

"Oh, J. So *much* like a bucket of cold water to my pride, sometimes."

"That's what big brothers are *for*," Jason says, and gives Tim a push toward the other side of the road.

They move, and Jason hasn't gone far before he has to go with the idea that the Dumonts probably just kind of *like* the idea of nature running wild on their property. This *part* of their property, anyway. If Ivy didn't tend to go for more tropical kinds of plants in this part of the timeline—

No, he can't make assumptions. Two years just isn't all that *long* in the grand scheme of things, and when it comes right down to it, Ivy had proved in his world that she liked this kind of nature just fine.

So. He keeps an eye out for plants that seem *too* healthy, growth that seems too new and riotous. Nothing so far, and nothing from Tim, and—

It's the first time he's sent Tim to work without being close enough to step in if things got hairy. He *is* nervous about it, but it's just a kind of nugget at the core of everything else he's feeling, all the *right* he's feeling.

Robin is on the case.

Jason smiles behind his hood and ignores the prickle of sweat at its heat—the material will absorb *enough* of the sweat to keep him going and he has a job to do.

He keeps moving.

"R to J—I'm out of uncontrolled vegetation on this side of the road."

"Go ahead and move onto the property itself, and don't be afraid to move *slowly*."

"Noted, R out."

The minutes pass with a whole lot of nothing, and if he hadn't been able to hear Dick's engine, he'd still know he was there by the way this small stretch of woods *feels*.

He's not alone here, anymore, and that more than anything else makes him want to hurry up and storm the damned castle. He moves up to where the lawn starts and waits—

Not long. Dick announces himself with a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Anything?"

"Nope. R's on the other side of this killing zone of a lawn."

Dick breathes a laugh and crouches next to him. "Ivy's never been the type for henchmen. Or automatic weapons, for that matter."

"Yeah, yeah, and the glass is half-full. We could keep going through these woods, but I *really* think she's inside."

"Me, too. It's just that I *also* think it would be a mistake for us not to know our perimeter as well as we can," Dick says, clapping his shoulder and moving off further.

"God, you sound like some damned *teacher*."

Dick laughs again. "Would it get you hot if I put my hair up in a bun and smacked you with a ruler?"

Jason splits off from Dick and stays close to the edge of the lawn. "You should feel free to imagine my gesture, Big Bird," he says, using the comm.

"Oh, I *love* imagining *you*, little wing—"

"R to—ah, both of you. I think I have something."

Jason feels a little like a hunting hound with the way that makes him *pause*, all over and utterly.

"What's 'something,' little brother?"

"Ah... maybe a nest? Of sorts? Or a hammock made of tree limbs? I'm at something of a loss. There doesn't appear to be anyone else around, but there are footprints—a woman's size six, approximately—made out of new shoots that disappear once they reach the lawn."

"Stay away from the footprints—*and* the nest," Jason says. "N—"

"We head for the house," and Dick moves quietly onto the lawn, looking about as obvious as it's possible *to* look—

Though Jason has to admit that none of them look subtle against all this manicured green. There are *serious* reasons why they don't normally work the suburbs. They make it to the house and start looking for a good way in, moving at speed. There are lights on all over the house, but no sounds making it out—

Crash and the tinkle of glass from two windows down, and Jason reaches for Tim, boosting him up—

"I see the world's most disturbing spider plant. It's—huge. And coming for the window, J, ah—"

He yanks Tim back down, turning, covering him, and trusting Dick to take care of himself—

While the spider plant *makes* an entrance for them. The leaf-slash-limb is broken and *twitching*, but it's possible to climb it and get *in*—

And move *quickly* out of the room—it may or may not have been a dining room before Ivy's invasion—and into a hall. There's an *actual* ivy trailing along the walls, punching deep holes into the plaster—

And dying *while* it grows, turning brown about eight inches behind the growing edge.

"She's weak," Dick says, pulling an incendiary out of his boot and heading down the hall.

Jason pulls his machete and pushes Tim ahead of him—

"This is weak?"

"As these things go, little brother. Stay sharp."

Tim nods and pulls both of his boot knives, careful to keep toward the middle of the hall—

And that's a scream that sounds a *lot* like a guy having his balls pulled right off—slowly. They head toward it at speed, and the closer they get the more the world starts to smell like the world's worst tea, bitter and bracing at once. Jason knows his rebreather is on correctly, but it's still enough to make *his* balls want to crawl right into his body.

"That smell—"

"Try to ignore it, R," Jason says. "We all get some bloodwork done when we get home."

"Noted."

And the dead-looking plants on the ceiling suddenly sprout green and *reach* for Dick—

But Tim's already leaping, slashing at the vines with his knives and tumbling in the air until he lands in *front* of Dick—

At which point things start getting serious. The screams cut off *badly*, but there's no way they're getting any closer right now. They keep Dick between them, letting him bounce his incendiary in his palm as they take care of the vines as best they can. Which...

The biggest problem Jason has with this is the fact that he can't really *see* what Tim is doing, as opposed to being able to hear Dick murmuring praise, warnings, and apologies for warning for things Tim can clearly already see. Dammit, he's got the *knives* out. Jason really can't *help* wanting—needing—to see that.

Still, they're making progress, and the tea smell has become a more general *green* smell—

Ivy, naked except for something that looks like a strapless bikini made entirely of thin, *mobile* vines, working their way around and around her body. She's still human-colored, but there's a tinge of green going all through her, almost *pulsing* beneath her skin—

And Tim is right in front of her. Fuck—

"A new boy. For me?" Ivy smiles like a shark and *blows* something right at Tim's face—

But Tim doesn't flinch before going at her with his knives, slashing and striking while she sends more and more vines at him—

Fuck, *fuck*. Jason starts hacking at the ones coming at the kid from the back. He's *aware* of Dick slapping the incendiary into Jason's palm and moving into the room Ivy had just left, presumably looking for the Dumont kid, but—

"Oh, that's not very *nice*, little boy," Ivy says, leaping up and letting her own vines carry her away from Tim's blades. Tim can't reach her on the ceiling, but Jason can if he just moves *fast* enough—

Liquid dripping on him that could be from the vines or could be from *her*—she's wounded, and the smaller vines she's wearing are moving almost frantically over her, exposing the bright red of her—heh—bush while they go to bind up her thigh—

Had Tim gone for a femoral slash? No, she still looks too lively for that—

And that fucking *roar* really would be something that looks like a pitcher plant with teeth. It's a fucking vegetable *cannon* of a thing, and Ivy dives right into it—

Jason pulls the pin and tosses the bomb in after her, yanking Tim *back* just as the plant tries to bite him in half—

"*Back*, c'mon—"

"Yes, J—"

And they make it back around the corner just as there's something like a semi-liquid belch—

And a *column* of flame shooting past where they were a second ago. *That* scream is Ivy sounding pissed as *hell*, and he doesn't have to tell Tim to move after her—

Hole in the floor where the plant had been, and a whole lot of smoldering green.

They pull their grapples and go down after her, and—they're in a basement, extensive and dark. However, it's not like there's a dirt floor—Ivy's headed *out*. The trick is to find the exit before she does—

And Tim's already moving, night-vision lenses down and following something *like* a blood trail.

"Be careful, R," Jason says, and flanks him.

Tim nods and casually wipes his blades on his uniform, getting them clear enough for another battle—

Whip-crack, thick and loud, and there are vines wrapped around Jason's wrist—*on* the machete side. They're thin, though, and Tim slashes through them with a strike Jason can't help being proud of, even though the trail had been a *trick*.

She'd probably stopped right around here and deliberately spattered blood ahead of her before binding herself up better and moving—there.

Wine cellar, and they've actually managed to back Ivy into a *corner*—and Jason's pretty sure that the brown that's showing on her bikini-vines has a lot to do with why. Her eyes are wild and she's holding a broken bottle—

"There's no escape, Dr. Isley," Tim says, and moves into a ready-position. "If you surrender, we won't hurt you, and you'll get the help you need—"

"*Help*. They shoot me full of drugs that have barely been tested on humans, full of *poison*—"

"Yeah, and they take your plants away," Jason says, and carefully pulls a bolo. "We know. But there's no way out. The only vines you have now are thin enough for Robin to take out without a fight, and your big plants are dying as we speak—"

"I'm not going *back*," she says, shattering the bottle and shooting all of her vines at once—

And, *fuck*, the vines all pick *up* shards of glass—

Tim dances back, but his uniform gets shredded—blood. *Real* blood, and Jason's slashing through the vines before he can think, tossing the bolo for Ivy's ankles and tackling her, hitting her—

Again—

Again—

"*J*. Stand *down*," Tim says, hard and sure—

Ivy's blood is black in the green light of the night-vision lenses, and her eyes...

They aren't wild so much as dazed. Her nose is broken, and so is one of her teeth. He'd—

He's not sick. He's not *sick*, and he can fucking well *cope*. He flips her over onto her stomach and zip-strips her wrists and ankles, turning her back over and—looking. Just looking, for a long moment.

"I'm *fine*," Tim says—

"So is she. Or she will be, soon enough. I—" Jason squeezes his eyes shut and breathes once, twice— "Call it in, baby bro. And watch her."

Tim studies him for a long moment before nodding and doing it.

Jason heads for the hole back up to the first floor—and Dick is staring down. "Dumont?"

Dick shakes his head. "She—he was in pieces."

"Fuck. We should've—"

"Come in faster. Yeah, I know," Dick says, and yanks on his own ponytail. "R's calling it in?"

"Yeah, Big Bird. Do we wait?"

"You're asking *me*? I—no. No, I know. I'll stay here. You get R back to the Cave and check him out."

"Done. And—don't beat yourself up for this, N."

Dick manages to look bleak even with his lenses down. "J—"

"Just don't. We're all feeling our way here, and you *had* a point. Just like I did when I broke Ivy's face a little for shredding R's uniform—and skin."

Dick winces. "He's—"

"Just fine. And pissed at me—"

"Not pissed so much as worried about you," Tim says, melting out of the shadows and gripping one of Jason's hands. The gauntlet makes it feel both unnatural and imperative. "You can't lose it like that—"

"On your first real night? Oh, I really think I can—"

"Not if you plan on letting me earn respect. That was Ivy's last gasp of a move, and there wasn't much power in it. Yes, I'm bleeding, but only from minor cuts and scratches. I don't care about her broken nose, J, but I care very much about my reputation—and our ability to work together."

Well... ouch. "I—spank received, and I *will*... deal with it. But let's get out of here."

"Done," Tim says, and climbs up his de-cel line to the first floor. Jason does the same, breaking off a piece of flooring before he's up and steady. Dick sketches them a salute and goes down to keep an eye on Ivy—

They go.

From here, it only takes ten minutes to get back to the Cave—most of that time being spent on getting around on the decidedly non-gridded private roads. Alfred is waiting for them when they get in with all the medical equipment out and ready to be used, but Jason walks Tim into the shower, helping him strip as they go.

"Haz-mat protocols, Al."

"Noted, Master Jason."

In the shower, then, and the scratches *are* all pretty minor, but they're all over Tim's chest and abdomen. It's a trick they're going to have to remember for the *next* time Ivy gets out. "You're gonna hate the decontamination shower with those scratches."

"Oh, I'm sure I will. I—Jay."

"Right here," Jason says, grabbing the sprayer so he can aim the water *directly* at all those scratches.

"I think. I'm not sure. Hm," Tim says, sounding both thoughtful and a little *dazed*—

Fuck. "You're not feeling right, are you?"

"I don't feel *bad*, per se. Just a little... strange. Maybe high. I suppose it could be adrenaline—"

"Except that adrenaline has never *hit* you this way, before," Jason says, shutting off the water and picking Tim up so he can *run* the kid over to the decon station—

"I can *walk*—"

"I'm sure you can. You go in first, then you sit in your own chemical stink for a few minutes while all the cleaners do their thing and *I* go through here, then we get back in the other showers."

"Okay. If you're. Did you know that your eyes are often scary *because* they're so beautiful?"

*Definitely* high. "You don't say," and Jason pushes Tim into the little tent thing. "Grab the string, close your eyes, pull the string. *Don't* open your eyes."

"All right. Though my eyes aren't as beautiful as yours, and therefore aren't as valuable."

"Tim—"

"I'm doing it. I'm—my eyes are closed and I'm pulling—oh, my God, this smells like burnt plastic and *bleach*."

"We'll raid Bruce's cologne collection later, baby bro, I promise."

"This is like... I don't think I approve of having to deal with this while I'm also having what will likely be my *only* experience of being high."

Which—that's pretty damned *funny*. It's just that he's a little too worried to *really* appreciate it.

"It's not *fair*, Jay—"

"Life's not fair. You know that."

"Mm," Tim says, only it sounds like there are a lot of extra m's involved. "I could get used to the stinging. It's a bit like having lots and lots of tiny vibrators in my wounds."

Jason raises his eyebrows. "Uh?"

"Bzz. Bzzz. Bzz bzz bzz."

"I... see?"

"Do I pull the cord to make it stop, Jay? I'm not sure if I *want* it to stop."

"Rub yourself down a bit, Tim. Turn around, really get *doused*."

"Will you be watching my silhouette while I do it? Because that could be... interestingly old-school in terms of eroticism, actually."

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to ten in his head—

Alfred puts a hand on his shoulder, and when Jason turns, he's holding a syringe. "A concoction of antihistamines made to Master Bruce's specifications. He tends to inject himself with this—"

"Whenever he goes up against Ivy, right. Thanks, Al, I'll shoot him up when he gets out."

Alfred nods and heads back over to deal with Tim's uniform—

"I don't like needles," Tim says, sounding distinctly *pouty*.

"Tell me about it."

"It's like being violated with metal. It *is* being violated with metal. And—things."

Right. "*Good* things, though. Uh—*helpful* things. You can turn off the shower now."

"Hmm," and Tim does it and steps out. He smells horrible, but it's for a good cause. "If anyone has to violate me, Jay, I'm glad it's you."

"That's really—thank you, Tim," Jason says and shoots him up in the bicep.

Tim nods. "You're welcome. And it's your turn. I *will* be watching your silhouette, by the way, so you should move around a lot. I'd like that, I think," and Tim's eyes are wide and—blown. And earnest. And—

Yeah, the kid's got himself a semi. "Can you stay right here? And not do... anything? At all?"

Another nod, and this one is as solemn and deep as the Oath no one has taken time to give the kid. And that...

*Will* Bruce do it? Or will he let Tim go his own way with no constraints? Jason's honestly not sure which way Bruce'll jump, and he has to admit that that's kinda seriously fucking scary.

He steps into the tent, rubbing his nose against the smell and closing his eyes.

As ever, this particular process feels like it takes about eight years, even though it's livened up for the little show he's putting on for his strange, serious, dangerous, beautiful, and *magnificently* stoned boy.

"Oh. Maybe we can go dancing someday, Jay."

Oh... yeah. Still, though— "You dance?"

"Like I'm being electrocuted *slowly*, for the most part, but I was mostly thinking I could watch *you* dance."

"It's a *thought*. Still, you should do things like that with Dick. I'm not much for crowds of people bumping into me in places where it's too loud to think."

"Hm. The security concerns *would* be high, I suppose. Do you think Dick would teach me how to dance?"

"Absolutely," Jason says, and scrubs at his chest and abdomen. "Just ask him sometime."

"I followed him and Starfire to clubs twice. I wish I'd been courageous enough to try to get inside," and Tim's voice is both wistful and *drifty*, which—

"Tim? You doin' okay out there?"

"I think, perhaps, if I were to step up into the air, I could fly. It wouldn't be very effective flight, but—still. Robins ought to fly."

"They *do* fly, baby bro. On de-cel lines."

"Yes, but. Thing. I want. I think I want wings. Sometimes I dream of wings, black and leathery. When they flap, I can smell this Cave. And blood. Lots of blood."

Okay, freaky... Jason steps out of the tent and walks Tim back to the real showers— "Tell me how you're feeling right now."

"Getting sleepy, I think. Not tired, sleepy. I never really thought about there being a difference between the two, but that was foolish of me. Human languages are inherently lazy. There wouldn't *be* two words—oh, I think there's more than two—"

"I'm hearing you, baby bro. How about how you feel *other* than sleepy?"

"Horny. I mean—'aroused.' No, those are two different things, as well. I am—horny. I almost think I want to hump your leg."

"Probably a bad idea until we're all cleaned up," Jason says, and turns the water on again.

"Do you think this was her plan? Because I'm not seeing the benefit of her dosing me with something like this. I mean, I still would've hit her. Though not as much as you did."

Jason pushes Tim under the water and starts scrubbing. "Distraction, forgetfulness, loss of control—"

"Did she ever do this to you? You have very nice legs," Tim says, and starts petting Jason's thighs. "I mean, I like looking at you, and touching you, and. Would you pose for me? Like a... body builder, I guess."

"Tim—"

"Please?"

Right, fine, humor the stoned vigilante. Jason steps back and does some posing and flexing. "Like this, baby bro?"

"Oh, *yes*, little wing," Dick says, and steps into the shower. He's still wearing his top and a hair tie—he strips those off. "You look *very* good."

"I'm doing it for *Tim*," Jason says, and he is *not* fucking blushing—

"Yes, he's very nice to me sometimes. Oh," Tim says, and his knees buckle—

Dick catches him and sets him down carefully on the tile—

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I mean, it seemed like a good idea for several seconds, but I was still in the process of arguing the pros and cons with myself," and Tim wraps his arms around Dick's neck and starts kissing him all over his face. The kisses look soft, damp, heartfelt, *and* like the prelude to Tim passing right out—

Dick laughs quietly. "You dosed him?"

"Really yeah, Big Bird," Jason says, and comes closer to check Tim's pulse, his temperature—difficult in the shower, but he does feel a little cool. As for his pulse, it's slow and strong.

Tim kisses Dick's nose, hums, and *throws* himself back, making it necessary for Jason to catch him before he brains himself—

"You were supposed to let me *fly*, Jay. Remember, I told you—"

"You're grounded for the time being, baby bro," and Jason pushes Tim up and into Dick's arms. "We should put him on the gurney and strap him down—"

"Ooh, *bondage*," Tim says, laughing *joyfully*. "I like bondage. It always makes me feel like a well-loved pet. Of course, that brings bestiality to mind, but—Dick, have you ever found a dog attractive?"

Dick chokes. "Ah—no. And perhaps you should end that conversation—"

"Some people out there *really* find dogs attractive, judging by what I've learned on the internet. That's just strange to me. I mean, I've seen some beautiful dogs, but none that give me erections, as opposed to the uncontrollable urge to rub their ears, and sometimes their bellies—"

"*Go* with that," and Jason picks Tim up and carries him out of the shower. Alfred is waiting there with a towel—

"I got it," Dick says, and follows them.

Tim doesn't put up a fight once he's on the gurney so much as he gets terribly *helpful*, turning around and around, lifting his legs, *spreading* his legs, playing the drums on Jason's chest, attempting to use Dick's hair to haul himself up—

They get him tied down.

Tim hums, writhes, and smiles up at them.

"This shouldn't be making me want to get him high more often," Dick says, "but... I really do."

Jason smacks the back of Dick's head. "We need his *mind*, not his damned id."

"The id is a *part* of the mind," Tim says. "A very important, and... it connects us to our animal selves, and allows us to live within our personal narratives, as opposed to merely reading them from the outside—"

"You slipped into Jung for a minute there," and Dick ruffles Tim's hair.

"I try to make things as integrated as possible. It's better, I think, to have something close to unified for one's view of psychology. Considering the lives we lead."

"I don't know, kid. You spend too much time trying to come up with a single theory of how the human mind works and you start misdiagnosing people—or ignoring people who shouldn't be ignored."

Tim hums and arches, dick bobbing—yes, he has to admit it, that dick's looking interesting right about now. And when he looks up, Dick has a wry expression on his face... which he turns on Tim's dick.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Well, I think so, Brain, but where would we get a hopelessly stoned underaged boy at this hour?" And Dick waggles his eyebrows.

Jason snorts. "Dick, man, that's wrong. That's really—"

"How much wrong-er than what was going through *your* head, little wing?"

Tim hums again, pumping his hips and smiling. "I recognize pop culture references when I hear them, but I don't always understand them. I mean, the obscure ones usually make—mm, a lot of sense to me, but the other ones..."

Jason rests a hand on Tim's thigh, noting the coolness, the softness of Tim's *inner* thigh... "Go on."

"Oh. Oh, that's really..." Tim pulls against the restraints and frowns. "What was I saying?"

Dick rests a—still-gloved—hand on Tim's chest, pressing and stroking in a way that might even be comforting to Tim right now—

"That's also nice. I—mm. I like the idea of being your brother. Both of you. It provides a certain amount of meaning to my life. Normally I don't like to think about the lack of meaning—it's really kind of a gaping hole, and also a wound—but it's there. It's always there. Except when you're here, Dick."

Dick makes a soft sound and manages—of course he manages—to find a way to hug Tim thoroughly despite the restraints.

Jason clears his throat. "Maybe you *shouldn't* think about meaning, Tim. You're doing everything you can to make the world a better place, and people love you. That's enough—"

"It's not enough for *you*. If it were, you wouldn't still be planning to *leave*," Tim says, frowning and pulling against the restraints again—

"*Easy*, little brother. We can't let you roam free just yet."

"I don't want to be *free*. I just want to touch, and hold, and—I think these moments must be rare, these chances to be together, and be—connected. One. Or—not one. I don't think I'd like being just a cog in a larger machine—"

"You never could be," Jason says, and squeezes Tim's thigh. "You're a lot more than that. You're—heh. Special."

Tim smiles—beams—and then laughs again, long and loud. It's a rusty sound, and as such it makes something ache in Jason, makes something *need* to be closer, like Dick—

He pushes Dick out of the way and kisses Tim, cupping his face and holding his head up so he doesn't have to work for it, so he can just *have* it—if he wants it.

It usually isn't a question, but Tim is shaking his head—

"No, no, I have to. I—Oh, Jay, I love you so much—"

"I love you, too," and Jason nuzzles Tim a little bit. "What do you have to do?"

"I have to *say*—I have to say that I always want to be your brother, I always want a family. I've always *wanted* a family, and I think—and right now I can't seem to *avoid* it—that I've never had one, at all."

And there's pretty much no way in hell he can avoid the wince for that. Just—damn. And Dick's looking pretty sick about it, too—

"Just so you know, Tim?" Dick strokes Tim's hair until he focuses—sort of—on Dick again. "We're not going to hold any of this against you. We know that you wouldn't really want to say all of this. In this way."

"Why wouldn't I? I can't seem to imagine... well, all right, there's the fact that I've never felt especially comfortable with emotional exposure, and the fact that I'm definitely inebriated right now, and the fact the two of you and Bruce are the only people I've ever really wanted to *impress*—hm. All right, yes, I'm talking too much," Tim says, and beams again. "It feels good. Everything feels good right now."

Jason sits on the edge of the gurney. "Then why don't you *focus* on feeling good, okay? We'll take care of you."

"Absolutely," Dick says, and sits on the other side.

It makes the gurney seem huge—no, it makes Tim seem exactly as small as he is. A *kid*, and there's a part of Jason which is *now* sitting up and wondering what the hell he's doing, what the hell he's *started*—

Because Dick is stroking Tim's chest again, smiling like *he* isn't thinking anything of the kind, smiling like he's completely okay with this, with the life Tim would've chosen given half a chance...

But he'd never given Tim a *chance* to choose, and maybe—maybe it was time for *everything* he's said and done to come crashing down on him. There's a voice in his head that only wants him to know that it's too late for everything except *exactly* what he has, and it's right.

It's right.

Tim laughs again, taking Jason out of his head, and when Jason looks...

Tim is smiling at him, eyes shining and bright, full of everything he wants and everything he doesn't deserve. Some part of Tim really is *okay* with him. *Entirely* okay, even with everything Jason has done, and yeah, Jason *did* need to know that, but he's sorry for it, too.

"Promise me something, Tim."

"Anything, Jay—"

"*Not* anything. Not right now, okay?" Jason slips his hand beneath Tim's head, cupping it and turning Tim's face until he can see Jason easily, see everything in *his* eyes, and please, please— "Promise me that you won't regret tonight, and everything you've said. Promise me you'll remember that we love you, and that we'd talk about any or all of these things with you whether or not you were stoned. Promise me that you'll remember that—that we're *interested* in you, and—God, all the other things I can't figure out how to say right now."

Tim's mouth is open—he closes it and nods, and his pupils are still like fucking *saucers*, and—

Hell, maybe it would be *better* if Tim forgot absolutely *all* of this. It's just that Jason knows that it would be a whole hell of a lot worse if he just *pretended* that he did. And—

Dick claps his hand down on Jason's shoulder, shaking him back and forth a little.

Jason closes his eyes. "You're about to say something heartwarming, aren't you."

"I'm *about* to say... that I really love the man you've become, Jay."

"God, Dick—"

"Hey, if you don't trust *my* opinion, ask little brother here. While he's feeling *loquacious*."

"I've always liked that word," Tim says, dreamy again just that fast. "It's *round*. Or—no. It's more like a cloud than a circle. Expressive. I don't suppose one or both of you could jerk me off?"

Dick laughs and kisses Tim and—

"Shouldn't we be worried about him passing on the contagion?"

Dick hums into Tim's mouth and holds up a finger—and then brings that hand to Jason's arm and strokes, back and forth and back again. He pulls back with a wet sound and stares into Tim's eyes. "We absolutely *should* worry, but somehow I'm not feeling like a good boy right now."

"To be fair," Tim says, "I started feeling strange almost immediately, but I'd been chalking it up to adrenaline and the fact that I'd helped take down *Poison Ivy*. I'm Robin. I'm Robin!"

"And positively *surrounded* by the people who know best what that means," and Dick nudges Tim's jaw aside so he can start kissing and humming against Tim's neck—

"Okay, so maybe I'm a little jealous."

Dick laughs and pulls back again. Dick *winks*. "Don't be jealous. Be *helpful*. I mean, I've left that nice little erection just for you, little wing."

"Mmm. I would like to state for the record that I'm *not* developing a complex about the size of my penis—the size of my *dick* relative to both of yours."

Jason snorts and moves down the gurney. "Think of it as a rite of passage, baby bro—we *both* spent our adolescent years showering with *Bruce*."

"My *God*, yes," Dick says. "I spent a good, solid year having to erase the image of the circus bears out of my mind."

"And so we've returned to the—mmm—real issue: bestiality," and Tim makes a sound low in his throat—

Yes, he really is *growling*. Jason licks the underside of Tim's penis from base to tip, and the growl gets a lot more serious—

"I *like* that sound, little brother. I—should I bite you?"

"Yes, please—ohh. The vibrators are back and I think they want to take me down to hell. Or—what if there is no heaven or hell—"

"There is," Dick says—slurs. "People die, people go weird places, people come back. Hey, I never asked you, Jay—"

"A lot of black nothing," Jason says, and sucks the head of Tim's dick once, twice—

"That's not *fair*—life isn't fair, I know, I know—oh, Jay, you should—there should be *light*—"

"There is," Jason says, and decides to see how far he can get his mouth away from Tim's dick and still keep the rope of spit of pre-come between them—

About seven inches.

"There's light, Tim. I had a chance for it, too. All I had to do was reach, stretch myself away from my body, away from the light of the fire and the kind of sunshine I'm pretty sure you *only* get in Africa—"

"Jay—J-Jay, I—oh, please—"

"There's *light*," and Jason licks Tim again, again—

*Again*—

"But I didn't want it," and he goes back down, *all* the way—

"*Ohh*..."

And the sound goes on and on, spiraling higher and dropping lower, higher again—

Cracked off, and Tim's gasping and moving, tugging against the restraints and—

It's a lot like he'd forgotten *how* to thrust his hips, because the motions are jerky and almost tortured—

Dick moans and comes down to join Jason, kissing and licking Jason's cheek and leaning in to suck on Tim's shaft when Jason pulls back and just holds the head in his mouth. It's a *tight* fit, but Tim is crying out and jerking, shouting and spasming—

Twitching in Jason's mouth—

He's going to come *soon*, and the least Jason can do is share—

He doesn't want to share. He pushes on Dick's shoulder, getting a laugh—

"Okay, *okay*. But don't be surprised when I kidnap Tim out from *under* you, Jay," Dick says, and moves back up the gurney—

The sounds are muffled now, and Jason *knows* that kiss is fucking epic, because when Dick wants—

God, when Dick *wants*, and yet Jason knows—*knows*—that the Dick in that other world had never so much as jerked Tim off. Everything would've been *different* if they had, from their body language those times when Jason had watched them together to the way Bruce would've spoken about Tim.

This—this is because of *him*, and if the spoiled *idiot* inside him can't decide if that's a good thing or not, the *rest* of him knows that it is, that it's another *right* thing. They'll always have this, because Dick wouldn't have it any other way, because once Dick opens the floodgates, there's no fucking closing them—

Another shout, and Dick must be making love to Tim's throat again, his long and perfect—

Jason groans around Tim's dick and sucks harder, fucks his face on Tim and grips those thighs, those hips—

*Fuck* me, he wants to say, and hopes that he's managing it with his body—

And knows that he is when Tim starts to buck, arching clear off the gurney and fighting the restraints again—

"So good, it's always so *good*, Jay—you can't—you can't take this *away* from me—"

Jason *grips* Tim's hips and tries to make Tim give him a rhythm, something to work against, work *for*—

"We've got you, Tim," and Dick's words are slurred again, low and somehow *both* soothing and fucking hot.

*Dick*—

And Tim, because Tim's begging between kisses now, most of his words getting lost in wet sounds, hums and muffled moans that make Jason fucking *need*—

He lets go of Tim's left hip and pushes his fingers behind Tim's sac, pressing and *working* him—

Tim screams into Dick's mouth and *comes* in Jason's mouth—

And *keeps* screaming when Dick pulls away to do—something. Jason can't tell for sure, but it *must* be good—

"Oh, don't stop, don't *stop*—"

"You look so *good* like this, little brother. I—*mm*—"

And it's *possible* that Jason shouldn't take this as an excuse to keep Tim's dick in his mouth, but he's not softening even a little, and he tastes like a definition of home he'd just somehow *missed* all these years, and he feels like—

He feels like Tim, and isn't that what he needs? What he has to take for himself with every fucking *second* Bruce doesn't call in with the bad news?

It *will* be bad, because there's just been too much time since the last call, because there still hasn't been a fucking *ransom* demand—

No, just this right now, *just* this, because the whimpering sounds Tim was making into Dick's mouth have become moans again, because, like this, he's doing something *right*—

Dick breaks the kiss and pants. "You've *got* to give me a turn *now*, little wing."

Yeah, probably. Jason pulls off and sighs, watching Tim's dick bob and shine in the fluorescents—yeah. "Okay, Big Bird, but you've gotta treat my boy *right*."

"The alternative is *unconscionable*," Dick says, and shoves Jason off the gurney before moving down between Tim's legs—

And Jason gets to watch Tim's eyes *cross* a little when Dick takes him in, gets to watch him purse his lips, *lick* his lips as he tugs on the restraints—

"*Fuck* me. One of you should—"

"You need recovery time, baby bro," Jason says and strokes Tim's arms and shoulders, massaging a little—

"The pain right now—I—the pain from you sucking me too long. Was good. Very good. Very *intense*—"

"But *that's* not something that can tear you up inside," and Jason leans in to kiss Tim a few times—

A few more—

"Be gentle on us, Tim. We're trying not to *hurt* you."

"Then don't *leave* me, don't go, promise me you won't—"

And Tim fights the kiss this time, fights *hard*, but doesn't bite Jason's lips or tongue and *does* give up—eventually. He shudders hard, though, and Jason knows that most of those sharp noises aren't for what either of them are doing. Jason cups Tim's face and strokes, making the kiss deeper and hopefully harder to resist *emotionally*—

And whether it's the kiss, Dick's blow job, or all the chemicals wreaking havoc in Tim's system, it's *enough* to make Tim start losing it the *right* way again, make him strain and *reach* for the kiss until Jason pushes his head back down and moves enough that he can comfortably play with Tim's nipples—

Maybe—just maybe—let himself think about piercing them for Tim, for *himself*—

Give himself something to pull on and twist—

Dick pulls off with a wet slurp and Tim whimpers into Jason's mouth— "I need—more. Of something. Maybe... if I use a lot of lube and *just* my fingers—"

Jason pulls back and stares into wide eyes, *dazed* eyes. "Yeah, good call—"

"I'm on it," Dick says, and heads for the cabinet. He's still fully suited up, though, and that's several kinds of wrong.

"Strip *off* while you're at it, Big Bird."

Tim groans and arches up off the gurney again, starts to *writhe* again—

"God, you look good enough to eat, Tim. You know I need you, don't you? I don't know—I don't know what I'd do without you—" Fuck, except that he's just fucking *begging* for *Tim* to start begging again—

Jason covers Tim's mouth with one hand and twists his nipple *hard* with the other—

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and nods, one tear sliding down the side of his face—

And Dick is back and naked except for his hair tie, uniform in a pile and the fingers of his right hand *good* and slick— "Do *not* be afraid to tell us how much you like this, little brother."

Jason pulls his hand away—

"I always like it. I always want to be *filled*," Tim says, and looks back and forth between them until he seems to lose his focus again. "You know I. It's good. It's *right*, because I've been so empty, so *alone*—"

"God, baby bro—"

Tim laughs, but his smile is a little hectic and *hard*—"I'm sorry, I can't seem to—I might be... coming down?"

Jason winces and strokes Tim instead of hurting him, cups his face. "There can be a crash, yeah. We could just take you—" To a house empty except for the housekeeper, who may or may not be wondering—no, Tim had called and said he *might* spend the night with his friend Ives. "Upstairs," Jason finishes. "We'd still need to keep you tied up for a while, but there's no reason for you to—be alone."

Tim nods and bites his lip, turning to look at Dick—who's eyeing his slick fingers with something a lot like chagrin.

"There's a *reason* God invited wet wipes, little brother," Dick says, and grabs one.

"I don't want to say no. I never—I still feel... unhappy. About saying no before. To Jason and Bruce. I feel. I feel. I feel a lot of things," Tim says, and laughs again, sounding perfectly fucking horrible.

"All right, we're getting you up and out of here," Jason says, and starts working on the restraints. It *takes* a little doing, because Bruce had designed the things to be impossible for *him* to get out of. "Dick, grab—"

"The robes, yeah, on it."

Once Tim is free, he sits up—and falls right into Jason's arms. "Easy, Tim. No rushing this. If a mosquito bit you right now, it'd fly smack into a fucking *wall*."

"Mm, good. I *hate* mosquitoes. Do you like spiders, Jason? I think spiders are incredibly disturbing in appearance—mostly the way they move—but overall they're wonderful creatures. I think we should study their webbing in order to make more things, more tools. I had—" Tim's yawn is jaw-cracking, and he shudders against Jason. "I had an idea."

"We can *work* on those ideas of yours," Dick says, and starts working Tim's arms into the robe.

Jason helps, and then they push him back down on the gurney while they put their own robes on—

"My turn," Dick says, throwing Tim—gently—over his shoulder and heading for the stairs.

"*I* could carry him in my arms—"

"Yes, Jay, and you're more of a man than I will ever, ever be," and Dick pats Tim's back. "Close your eyes so you don't get motion sickness, little brother."

"I think it would probably be worse if I couldn't see. Though I can't say for sure. And you have—oh my God, I was about to say something about your ass."

*Definitely* coming down. Jason gives Tim's hair a good tug. "We'll take it as read."

"I said a lot of things. I'm *saying* a lot of things—"

"Remember what you promised me, Tim."

"I—"

"*Listen* to Jay, Tim. We've all been there, in one way or another. And we? Mouthed off to *Bruce*."

"I think... I think I'm going to go to sleep," Tim says, getting a grip on the belt of Dick's robe and faking a yawn.

"Good one, baby bro. Though it would've been more realistic if you'd done that *while* you were talking."

"Hm. Noted."

Once they're upstairs, Dick stops at his door—and then moves down the hall toward Jason's old room.

"Hey—"

"Door's open, little wing. Let's just see what there is to see," Dick says, kicking it open wider and stepping into Jason's memories.

The posters aren't on the walls, anymore, but everything else...

The furniture is where he'd put it, and Jason remembers that long day of muscling all that heavy wood around. The curtains are at just the right degree of open, and the sheets are the deep green that's still his favorite damned color.

Jason doesn't bother looking in the closet and bureau—he knows what he'd find.

He shakes it off and pulls the covers back enough that Dick can get Tim settled in the middle of the bed—and Tim immediately pulls the cover up and looks at them like they might decide to beat the hell out of him at any given—no, it wouldn't be a beating. It would be something they *said*, because Tim feels, right now, like he'd given away the store.

He had.

"You... really don't look like you're getting to sleep anytime soon, kiddo," Dick says, and moves around to the far side of the bed before sitting down, leaving the near side—the *door* side—for Jason in an act of courtesy that probably didn't even register.

Jason strips off his robe and sits down, too, resting a hand on Tim's chest—through the covers. "I told you to relax, didn't I?"

"Relaxation being a *good* thing, a thing that leads to sleep, dreams of criminals going to jail, dreams of very attractive people in *very* tight uniforms—"

"*Super* tight," Jason says—

"Mmm. Super*man*. Do you know that thing he's wearing is just *cloth*, little brother? It's why it gets blown off him so often. Now, he denies that he keeps it that way *just* for fan service purposes, but he's modest, that way—"

"Jesus, Dick—"

"I have *personally* collected a good, solid hour of news footage of Clark wearing nothing but *shreds*, little brother. Shreds that expose, oh, *acres* of perfect, golden flesh and a musculature that would make a dyed in the wool lesbian—"

"I *think* you mean flannel—"

"*I* think I'm going to take you down on the East Side and leave you for some very colorful and important citizens of Gotham to *beat* you, little wing—what was I saying?"

"Ah." Tim blinks and licks his lips. "I believe you were talking about Superman—"

"You *should* call him Clark. You're family now, and he loves our family very, very much—"

"He loves our *asses*," Jason says, lying down beside Tim and stroking a little more—

"That, *too*. And oh my *God*, you haven't had your ass loved until it's been loved by Clark Jerome Kent," and Dick lies down, too. "I'm serious, little brother. You should think of it as an important rite of passage."

And Tim is blinking a lot more, now, looking back and forth between them and very, very clearly fighting back a laugh.

Jason grins. "*Or* you could consider it as just one of those hazards that go with living this life. Gunmen, violent psychos—and aliens who just *love* to get their hands on the asses of pretty young boys."

"Pretty. I—"

"Oh, don't fight *that*, Tim," Dick says, and his smile is broad and *wet*. "We've *seen* you in drag."

"Mm, yeah," Jason says. "We've *also* seen you mostly *out* of drag and impaled on cock."

"Which, I must say, is an *excellent* look on you," and Dick's smile gets wider. "And I just *bet* that Clark already agrees with me."

Jason snorts and gives Dick a shove. "Are you *trying* to get Big Blue to show up unannounced?"

"*There's* an idea. What do you think, Tim? Wanna meet the man? See for yourself?"

"Well, I—yes, actually, but not while I'm naked—"

"*Easy* enough problem to fix. Clark, come *here*. But wait until Tim gets his robe back on."

All right, *fine*. If *anything* can distract Tim from his own brain right now... yeah. Jason rolls out of bed and grabs Tim's robe.

Dick hustles Tim out of bed and *into* the robe—

And there's a knock on the window.

"Oh—goodness," Tim says, staring wide-eyed... at the huge, grinning alien—in farmboy civvies—hovering outside the window.

Dick beams and jogs over to the windows, throwing one open—

"Thank you," Clark says, because he's already inside—and offering Tim his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Robin."

Tim swallows and shakes Clark's hand. "And you, ah... Superman."

"Please, call me Clark. Especially when I'm dressed like this," and Clark fucking *swallows* Tim's hand in his own. "May I call you Tim?"

Tim's blinking again, looking up and up and up some more— "I—of course. I mean, I think so. I mean—yes. Ah. How are you?"

If anything, Clark's smile gets even wider—and starts seeming like it's lighting the *room*. "Quite well, thank you. I... hm. I understand you've been having something of a difficult time, tonight."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "By which you mean you've been... monitoring."

Clark's smile turns wry. "I find it very difficult to ignore the voices of the people I care about," he says, and turns to Jason. "Jason. Words can't express how happy I am to see you, for all that the circumstances are very strange."

"Um... yeah," Jason says, and pushes a hand back through his hair. He really is *extremely* naked, and so is Dick. And the fact that it *seems* like Clark is only looking into his eyes does *not* mean he is. "Hell, Clark, it's good to see you, too."

Clark's eyes narrow in amusement, and then he turns back to Tim. "I like to think that I've been a friend to your new family over the years, Tim. I'd be honored to add you to that particular... list."

Tim looks down at where Clark is still holding his hand in both of his own and touches his tongue to his upper lip— "Ah—why? You don't know me—unless you've been listening a great *deal*."

Heh. Score one for the kid. Jason crosses his arms over his chest.

"Ah... hm." Clark moves *one* of his hands and scratches at his eyebrow a little. "How would you define 'a great deal?'"

"Oh, Clark, don't *weasel*," Dick says, pushing his way under Clark's arm and wrapping *his* arms around Clark's waist. "We *all* know you've been on high alert since you heard Jason's voice again."

Clark smiles down at Dick for a moment before turning to Jason again. "I wasn't sure. I—told myself that I was imagining things, that my senses were lying. It wasn't a difficult thing to do, considering the fact that you didn't seek out Bruce. But then there were the things you said to Tim... I. If Bruce hadn't sought you out when he did, I would've felt the need—"

"To tell on me, Clark?" Jason shakes his head and smiles. "Yeah, I guess I can see your point."

"It's only that his grief was so powerful, his sense of hopelessness... I understand that you had reason to keep your secrets, Jason, but Bruce is my closest friend."

"Your *best* friend," Dick says, and nuzzles Clark's chest a little bit, and—

Of course *he* wouldn't care that he's bareass. Clark has been a 'good friend' to Dick for a lot of years—

"Yes, I suppose—no, I do think of him that way. Though that doesn't mean I don't care for all of you," and Clark turns back to Tim. "Your secrets are safe with me. Always."

Tim laughs quietly and turns Clark's hand in his own, stroking Clark's palm and almost certainly noting the smoothness, the lack of anything resembling scar or callus. He touches his lip again with his tongue and looks up. "It seems as though I don't have a *choice* in terms of whether or not I trust you, Clark."

Clark frowns slightly—

"Don't think of it that way, little brother. We all keep so many secrets that it's *good* to have someone who knows just about everything. It's really kind of like sanity insurance," and Dick rubs his cheek against Clark's shoulder.

Clark sighs. "While I would like it very much if you were to subscribe to Dick's viewpoint, I do understand how that might not be possible. I can only say that I *do* work to give the people I care about as much privacy as possible. I can always hear, but I don't always *listen*."

Tim raises his eyebrow again, looking both thoughtful and speculative, but he nods after a moment. "All right, Clark. Though... possibly it's petty, but I can't help feeling as though I'm at a distinct disadvantage."

*That* makes Clark smile again, bright and hopeful. "At nearly any time you wish, I'm ready, willing, and able to converse with you, Tim. You should never feel as though any question you want to ask is too personal. You may make me blush, but it's a very small price to pay for the chance to have another friend."

God, *Clark*. "You've gotten a lot more subtle about putting the moves on a guy since you tried that with *me*," Jason says, and raises his own eyebrows.

Clark's smile for him is *deeply* wry—and this time he looks Jason up and down *just* slowly enough that Jason can see it. "One does one's best. Jason."

Jason snorts and makes a pushing motion with his hands—

Clark sighs again. "As you wish," he says, and *winks*.

And Dick must've caught *all* of that, because he's laughing hard enough to shake his whole body against Clark's own—

And Tim is smiling again, bright and small and real. "I suppose... I suppose I'll have to call you. Sometime."

"Please do," Clark says, and reaches to push a lock of Tim's hair back from his forehead.

Jason's skin *remembers* what that touch is like, the way it's simultaneously almost too gentle to feel and *hot*, until it feels almost more like being shocked than being touched, and—

Tim stiffens and sucks in a breath, blushing impressively.

Clark lets *all* of them see exactly how much *that* had affected him, and then steps back, sharing his smile around. "I'll leave the three of you to your rest. Thank you for the opportunity to be near you. All of you."

Dick pushes up on his toes and kisses Clark—

And Clark flies them up until their hair is brushing the ceiling. Jason leaves them to it and focuses on Tim...

Who's looking *very* speculative again. *Right*. Jason moves up behind Tim and rests his hands on his shoulders, making a point of brushing the sides of Tim's throat with his fingers.

Tim shivers and steps back against him, but never takes his eyes off Dick and Clark, who, Jason has to admit, make a damned pretty picture—

And just that fast, Dick is swaying on his feet and Clark is gone, curtains flapping in the breeze. Dick closes his eyes and tilts his head back, breathing deeply— "God, I love that smell."

"It smells a bit like the leading edge of a storm—without the scents of the city to... interrupt it, I suppose," Tim says, and turns to look at Jason.

"Yeah?"

"That was 'subtle?' Clark hitting on me, I mean."

"Heh. Well, he didn't touch you until *after* he was done, and he didn't say anything about the way you smell—"

"Or what your eyes reminded him of," Dick says—

"Or the pleasure he takes in the act of 'physical love...'"

Tim's expression *quirks*. "I'm not sure if I'm insulted or relieved."

"*Don't* worry, little brother. All of that will come in time, whether or *not* you decide to give him a try. Clark believes in being *open*."

"And for *Dick* to say that about someone? You know it's hardcore," Jason says, and tugs on Tim's robe.

Tim steps out of it and stretches. "I—I'm not sure how long it will take to come to terms with the fact that he can hear *everything*. That he's *heard* everything."

"Well, there *are* the times when he's off-planet or busy saving *this* planet," and Dick leads Tim back to the bed.

"Yep. Plus? All the time with Lois Lane."

Tim pauses halfway onto the bed, looking lean and tempting and entirely available for Jason to walk up behind him and grind against his ass a little— "Oh. Jay. Um—that isn't—I thought that was a tabloid rumor."

"It *is*," Dick says, and climbs in on his side of the bed.

"And it isn't," Jason says, and strokes Tim's thighs a little before backing off and letting Tim get the rest of the way into bed. "It's complicated."

"Mm-*hm*. Poor Clark. It's tough to have your major romantic competition be a guy you *created*."

Jason snorts. "I always thought that marked Lois out as kind of a freak. I mean, okay, I can see wanting Clark—*he's* a freak, but yeah, he's a good guy. But Superman? You might as well perv on McGuffin the Crime Puffin or something."

"Oh, that's totally unfair," and Dick turns onto his side and starts wagging his finger at Jason. "For one thing, the puffin doesn't have god-like powers and that *body*. For another thing, *she* doesn't get to know the real Clark."

"Well, whose fault is that, Big Bird? I mean, *I* always thought that if Clark really wanted to settle down with Lois, he'd suck it up and *give* it up. It's not like Lois would run to her damned editor and spill the guy's secret to the world. Or is it?"

Dick frowns and absently pets Tim. "I'm not sure. I've only met her once or twice, and she wasn't exactly in the mood to open up and share with the kid vigilante, but—well. She loves at least *some* of Clark. That has to count for something."

Jason shakes his head. "Okay, that's kinda fucked."

"But... wouldn't it be the same with any civilian?" Tim looks at both of them. "You'd always have to wonder if they *could* keep the secret, because none of them could possibly understand how important the secret *is*. If they could, they probably wouldn't *be* civilians, right? At least—not entirely."

That...

"I think that's kind of harsh, little brother—"

"I don't mean it to be some kind of... of *slam* against the vast majority of people who don't live the way we do, Dick. I just mean that it *is* a crazy way of doing things, and it doesn't seem like it would be the easiest thing in the world to *share* that kind of crazy."

Jason doesn't have to look—he can *feel* Dick frowning for that one. But— "Tim has a point, Big Bird. With *any* civilian, you start out by lying about who you are—telling *big* lies about who you are and what you do with your free time. Even with the most sympathetic civilian, that *has* to fuck things up at least a little. Or have *you* been spending a lot of time macking on citizens?"

"Citizens. I—a lot less time than *you* have, Jay, and, all right, I have to admit—all the lies kept me from even *thinking* about being with a civilian perhaps as much as Babs' Batgirl uniform did—"

"My fucking God, she was sexy in that thing."

Dick sighs. "She didn't actually *start* my puberty, but she certainly sped it *up*."

"Jesus. I can see it," Jason says, and grins. "I'm seeing it right *now*."

"Our first kiss..." Dick sighs again. "I think I would've ridden my bike under a truck if she said she'd slip me some tongue for it."

Jason snorts. "Back to Lois."

"Yeah, Lois. Well, probably? No one knows her better than Clark does, and he wouldn't *be* madly in love with her if she wasn't actually a wonderful person—"

"You don't think he seems a little... free? With his love?" And Tim turns to give Dick the *questioning* eyebrow.

Dick laughs. "Okay, it's nothing but the truth that a *large* part of Clark would thrive in some hippie commune with organic farming and daily orgies, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have excellent *taste*. Look how well he's taken to *you*."

Tim blushes again. "He doesn't—all right, he *does* know me, but that doesn't make it any *better*."

"Heh. *Go* with that, baby bro," Jason says, wrapping his arm around Tim's waist and squeezing—

"I—he's also. He's. I think I like him—"

"Go with *that*, little brother—"

"It's just that I'm a little afraid of him, and also afraid of how *much* I could like him. There's a certain terrifying appeal to the idea of being with someone who already knows *every* bad and boring thing about me *because* he's been paying attention—"

"Big alien *stalker*—"

"We stalkers have to stick *together*, Jay," Tim says, and there's a smile on his face, but it doesn't quite make it to his eyes—which is understandable.

Jason presses down on Tim's chest. "It's freaky as *hell* that you were stalking all of us for almost four years, but—"

"That's different, Jay? Tell me how, please."

Dick hums. "He's got you there, little wing."

"Oh, fuck off, Dick. He *doesn't* 'got' me, at all. It *is* different, because Tim is Tim—not Clark fucking Kent—and that means he gets a free pass."

"I think he *likes* you," Dick stage-whispers—and then sticks his tongue out at him.

Jason flips him off, and Tim—

The smile *does* make it to his eyes. Good enough. "Go to sleep, baby bro," Jason says, and flicks Tim's nose lightly. "Neither of us will until you do."

"Oh, no pressure *there*—"

"None at *all*," Dick says. "We could make Jason sing you a lullaby?"

Tim coughs out a laugh.

"Oh, yeah, here ya go: Lullaby and good night, go to sleep or I punch you in the face."

Another laugh, and Dick's grinning, and—damn, this is good. Just—good.

Too good, maybe, but it's not like he can even imagine walking away from it tonight. Jason smiles ruefully and kisses Tim lightly—and then gets pulled into a kiss from Dick—

Who then turns and kisses Tim. "Sleep."

"All right. But I reserve the right to blame both of you if I get so used to this kind of thing that I have difficulty sleeping alone," Tim says, and the laugh is in his voice, but he's *also* being serious.

"One of the first Titan inventions was a kind of water-lung for Garth so he could take naps with the rest of us, sometimes. *Don't* tempt my ingenuity—"

"Yeah, you might wind up sleeping with the fish-boy. Who really is kinda pretty."

"Especially in drag," Dick says, and kisses Tim one more time. "We're here," and his voice is lower and a lot more serious. "And we won't let you sleep through Bruce's call."

Tim nods and closes his eyes, and Jason and Dick spend the next five minutes staring at Tim until he *is* asleep—which is kind of an impressive feat on Tim's part.

Dick reaches over Tim's body and clasps Jason's forearm. Jason returns the gesture.

They put themselves out—


	30. Chapter 30

—for what feels like about three minutes before Alfred is leaning over the bed with their comms—all three of them—on a little tray. Jason's *awake*, and so is Dick.

Tim makes a soft sound when Dick slips his comm in, but then he's awake, too, because—

"B to all. I'm coming in."

And Jason knows that feeling is *hope*, but he'll be damned if he knows what he's hoping *for*—

Tim swallows. "What about—"

"The Obeah man and his organization has been neutralized, and... one of the hostages has been retrieved safely. She's with the Port-au-Prince authorities," Bruce says. It's the *Bat* voice, but Bruce is all over it. That fucking hesitation—

"One," Tim says, and it's not a question. It's—God, it's a verbal fucking *punch*, or maybe the aftermath of one—

"There will be an autopsy, but there is a ninety-five percent chance that Jack Drake was... murdered. With poison."

Jason squeezes his eyes shut—

"No. No, I—no—"

"The authorities," Bruce says, inexorable *and* slipping, "will be contacting the Drakes' family in Gotham within the next two hours. Robin..."

"Batman. I'm. I'm here."

"Robin. I."

Jason opens his eyes, and Tim's face is blank right up until you look in his eyes, which are exactly as terrible as they should be—

"Batman out."

Dick wraps himself around Tim immediately, but it doesn't do anything for the question of what Jason should be doing right now. Tim's staring *through* him, and—fuck.

Just—*fuck*. "Tim—"

"My father is dead, Jay."

Jason nods—

"No. Say it. Say it for me, please."

Jason reaches out and *just* lets his hand brush Tim's knee—

Tim shudders. "Say it."

"Your father is dead."

Dick makes a soft sound and squeezes Tim tighter. "We've gotta get you back home, but we've got a few minutes—"

"A few. Minutes." Tim bites his lip *hard* and nods, shrugging free enough to stroke Dick's arms. "My father is dead."

"Yeah, Tim. He is."

Tim tilts his head to the side, eyes wide and fucking—brimming. "Do you still hate him, Jay?"

Jason shakes his head. "What I'm feeling doesn't matter for shit right now, Tim—"

"It does. It always does. Just—trust me," Tim says, scrubbing the tears away and laughing horribly. "Tell me."

Damn. "Yes, Tim. I hate him."

"There's. I've always thought that there's a virtue to consistency, but now I wonder if there's anything I could say or do to make you feel differently, and how I would feel if it turned out that there wasn't."

"God, little brother, I'm so sorry. I know that doesn't mean anything right now—"

"It does," Tim says. "Neither of you should ever worry about the things you say not meaning anything to me. I'm just—that's just not how I'm made," Tim says, and shrugs Dick off the rest of the way before standing up on the bed and stepping off. "I have two very good brothers. I don't have a father, but—the balance sheet is difficult to picture," and Tim puts on his robe. "Perhaps I shouldn't be thinking about it that way."

"I don't think you should, no," Jason says, and he and Dick move off the bed, too—

"It never works that way, Tim. Even if we want it to."

Tim makes a non-committal noise and walks out, making them shrug their own robes on at speed—

Alfred has stopped Tim in the hall with a pile of folded clothes—just Tim's own.

Jason looks at Dick—

"We let Alfred take him home in one of the cars, little wing. And we damned well stay *on* his house until he gets himself alone again."

Jason nods, and they head down to the Cave for their uniforms, trusting Alfred to keep Tim from doing anything like trying to *walk* home. If anyone is used to kids with dead parents...

What has he *done*?

Wouldn't it have been better to lure them out for a night on the town and—he could've made it look like a mugging. He could've made it be *quick* on Tim, and Bruce would've taken him in, and Tim would've had devoted himself even more seriously to the Mission, to all of *them*—

Except that he would've felt the need to confess, sooner or later. Just like he'd confessed every other fucking *thing*—

"Don't lose it, Jay. Deal with the fact that you *could've* stopped this *and* deal with the fact that *you're* not the one who poisoned Tim's father," Dick says, and pulls on his boots. "Tim needs that from you, and I do, too."

"Dick—"

"*No*. He needs you, and for better or worse, you set it *up* that way. Don't get yourself so *fucking* wound up that you need to run again."

Jason sucks in a breath for the slap that was. He could say something here about how he needs to go back, go *somewhere*, how he can't just—

He can't say anything of the kind. He nods and finishes getting dressed, and they head for the bikes together. And...

"Dick. Some of the things that go through my mind—"

"Are fucked beyond *all* recognition, I know," Dick says, and turns a hard smile on him. "So what else is new? One of the first things I thought about you was that you would've made a good *henchman*, Jay."

"And you still feel that way?"

"No way. There just isn't a hero who you *are* designed to be a sidekick for. You're your own man, and a good one. You led a fucked up life before you even got here, and all of that is always going to be in your head—but you pull yourself above it a little more each day, and I'm *not* going to let you forget that."

"Dick, I wish his mother had died, too. The only thing holding me back from that feeling is the fact that I need him to love me."

"They can't be that *bad*, Jay—"

"No, they aren't. Or—hell, Dick, I knew a kid who grew up in a house like that. She killed herself *slowly*. And you've seen—" Jason pushes a hand back through his hair. "And it's not just being mad on Tim's behalf. It'd be easier if it was. I don't want any *part* of him to belong to those people."

"They're his *parents*—"

"Yeah. But *we're* his family. And that's all I want, and I can't make myself stop wanting it, no matter how good a person I *want* to be," Jason says, and stares into Dick's eyes, fucking *willing* him to see, to understand, to *care*—

Dick frowns and shakes his head. "I don't understand, Jay. I don't—I don't think I *can* understand."

Jason closes his eyes and nods. And then he opens his eyes again and focuses hard on Dick. "Then just remember it. Remember that I said it, that I fucking *owned* it, okay?"

Dick grips Jason's shoulder and squeezes hard, nodding. "Let's go."

In the end, they spend a good hour and a half crouching behind a directional mike and wincing as Tim alternately plays and *is* the worried, grieving son for his housekeeper before the woman leaves to make what sounds like will be a truly fucking epic grocery shopping trip.

They give it five solid minutes after she drives off and then invade, climbing through Tim's bedroom window just in time for Tim to walk in.

His eyes are hollow and he looks like he's lost weight. Knowing that's impossible doesn't chase the illusion away, and—

Jason can't keep himself from pulling Tim into his arms. The *most* he can do is to do it slowly and gently enough that Tim has time to pull away, reject him, fucking *hit* him—

Tim sighs against Jason's chest and lets himself be held for a long moment before he hugs Jason back.

Dick moves up behind Tim and joins the hug— "What can we do, little brother?"

"I haven't the foggiest clue—no, that's a lie. I. You have to understand that I'd begun preparing for this. I couldn't quite formulate a mental equation of how I would handle it if my mother died *versus* my father dying, but I still... I still considered it."

"That's because you're not like other kids. You're—you're better," Jason says—

"Mm. Perhaps I'm just more anal. What you can do for me: please don't let me chase you away. Tell me to shut up and cry if you have to, just—don't let me chase you away. Either of you."

"God, Tim—you got it," Dick says, and squeezes tighter—

"At the same time, Dick, I don't think it counts as chasing you away to point out that you should be on your way back to New York."

"Tim—"

"No, Jay, he—he *told* Starfire that he would go back once Ivy was taken care of—all right, now I can't actually breathe."

"Sorry, sorry, I just—I can't leave you right now, little brother. And if you think that Kory wouldn't understand—and *agree*—then I have to let her shoot starbolts at you for a little while."

"I—" Tim wriggles most of the way free. "I think I would actually find that soothing, right now. Maybe... I could always use more crossfire training," Tim says, sounding *hopeful*—

Jason cups his shoulders. "You have to stay in—"

"Not—not at *night*. Mrs. Mac will sleep, and—"

"Your mother is *going* to call at some point, Tim, and you know... your housekeeper will probably try to wake you up for it," Dick says, and strokes Tim's hair almost restlessly—

"You're being reasonable. I think. I think I might hate that. And my father is dead. My father is dead. I'm never going to see him again, because he's dead. My mother is going to need. Oh. I don't know what she's going to *need*. I don't—" Tim shrugs free again and starts pacing, crossing his arms over his chest and patting at his own arms, frowning hard and—

Facial tic. He's about to have a panic attack.

Jason grabs Tim and drags him over to his bed, stroking him and saying... he has no idea what he's saying, but it's in a low voice, and maybe it's even soothing, because after a few minutes of it, Tim takes a calming breath—

And curls into something like a fetal position on the bed. "I'm fully aware that I'm not making a. A very good showing."

Dick crawls onto the bed—boots *off*—and curls up behind Tim. "You're doing fine."

"You really are, kid. You—"

"You really should let yourself lose it," Dick says, and pulls Tim against him. "We're *here*."

"You have to go. You have to leave me alone. I really should—it would just make sense for me to begin preparing for that, the way I'd begun preparing for the loss—the death—I've skipped denial entirely, haven't I?"

Jason winces and toes his own boots off, settling in on Tim's other side. "Yeah, pretty much. You've always been pretty fast."

"Maybe. Maybe I can skip some other steps—"

"*Don't* try," Dick says. "You'll just wind up tripping over yourself when all the repression backfires on you. *Trust* the orphans."

"Half an orphan. I. Do you think my mother will want to..." Tim frowns and straightens out, turning onto his back and folding his hands on his chest—and then he winces and stretches his arms out at his sides. "Families are supposed to try to pull together in times of grief and crisis."

Dick nods. Jason... thinks he might have to abstain from that one—

"You don't think she'll want to pull together, do you, Jay?"

Dick sends him a warning look—

"I don't know, Tim. I really—"

"Don't lie. Please don't lie to me."

*Dick* winces—

"All right. I... going by the behaviors and habits I've observed, I think she'll fold in on herself in her grief, and probably resent any attempt to pull her out of herself—"

"*Jesus*, little wing—"

"I could be—I could be *wrong*," Jason says, searching Tim's eyes. "I could be wrong."

Tim nods, bites his lip, and nods again. "Will you hate her more or less if you are?"

"That depends on how she goes about reaching out, Tim. If she opens up for you or just decides to make you bear all the weight. If she copes or if she expects everyone else—including you—to do it for her. If she acts like an adult or if she takes her pain out on you."

Tim makes a sound—swallows it back. "You have to *know*. She's never been abusive. She—not to. Not to me."

"I know, Tim. I know that. I just don't trust her to keep up the good work."

Tim nods and stares at nothing for a solid minute, another—

And Jason catches himself trying to match the rhythm of Tim's breathing, then trying to match *Dick's*—

"Thank you, Jay. For being honest. It's—it's very important."

Jason nods and reaches to hold Tim's hand, pushing his fingers between Tim's own and squeezing.

"I think I'd also like to know... what are the terrible things that are supposed to happen in Gotham—that *happened* in your Gotham?"

Dick rests his hand on Tim's chest. "Tim, there's no way to be sure—the timeline is already different—"

"Yes, I know. But I need to—I think what's driving me hardest, right now, is the need to remember the important things—"

"It *is* important that your Dad died, little brother. It's *okay* if that's your whole world right now—"

"No," Tim says, and sits up in a casual lotus. "It isn't okay, because it would *hurt* more to just fall into my own pit. I'm *going* to cry—more than I have, and I'm going to do all those other things, but right *now*—"

"A guy who calls himself Bane is going to break Bruce's back. He'll recover, but it wouldn't have happened at all, probably, if you had been there to *watch* his back, Tim—"

"God, *what*—"

Tim gives Dick the stand-down gesture. "Why do you think I wasn't there?"

"I had no idea—but now that I've thought about it..." Jason sighs and sits up, too, keeping a hold on Tim's hand. "He probably pushed you away in a blend of exhaustion-related insanity—Bane causes a mass breakout at Arkham—and grief for... for me."

Tim nods. "I won't let that happen. What else?"

"The guy Bruce appoints to take his place is brutal and kind of insane in his own right—he kills."

"Jesus. I—*hell*, little wing, *I* won't let that happen—"

"But you might've," Tim says, and looks at Dick. "If you hadn't worked things out with Bruce before then. Right?"

Dick rears back, rolling off the bed and starting to pace. "I don't think I should hear this. I—we can't drive ourselves crazy about a future that might not *happen*."

"I think we should be prepared," and Tim turns back to him. "What else?"

"Plague," Jason says. "Manufactured, that is. You catch it while tracking down the assholes who released it and nearly die. It takes out thousands."

Dick moves to the window and grips the edges of it. "God, Jay. Where were *you* when all of this went down?"

"Learning at Talia's knee and being a fuckup."

Dick shakes his head—

"What else?"

"Earthquake. Massive one. Thousands are killed immediately, the president orders the city to be evacuated and abandoned. Meanwhile, Arkham isn't quake-proof, so *everyone* gets out and starts carving up the city. It takes the whole family—minus me—over a year to get things halfway cleaned-up again. Nobody ever manages to root Ivy out of Grant Park. You turn fifteen in the middle of it, Tim."

"All of this happens in the next two *years*, little wing?"

Jason nods. "There's more, but... those are the major things. Those are the things I wanted—needed—Tim to be ready for, more than anything else. A lot can change if Bruce has the right kind of partner."

"Someone hard. Someone sure and *ruthless*. Over and above all of those things, someone who was dedicated to the family and, perhaps, *only* the family. No distractions. No weaknesses that couldn't be covered, healed, or ameliorated *by* the family. Yes, I see," Tim says, and moves into a more perfect lotus.

Dick comes back to the bed and cups Tim's face. "You *won't* be alone."

Tim's smile is small and *feels* cracked. "No. I'll be part of a family. The best family anyone could ever ask for. I—do you think Barbara will like me?"

Dick narrows his eyes in something that looks a lot like pain and kisses Tim's forehead. "I think once she sees what you can do with computers... on *top* of everything we'll be telling her about you..."

"She'll wanna keep you, Tim," Jason says, and squeezes Tim's hand again.

"Yeah," Dick says. "*That*," and he sits beside Tim again. "Why don't... you could tell us about your father, a little, you know."

"Stories. Memories," and Tim turns to Jason.

Jason nods.

Tim laughs again. "Part of me wonders what the point will be of that. I can't convince you of anything."

"I'm stubborn, but I'm not—tell us about loving him. Show him to us," and Jason squeezes harder. "Please."

"You're just trying to get me to deal with my emotions. I—I suppose that's necessary, too. All right."

And Tim spends the next two hours offering carefully-chosen fragments of his life with his father. They all know he's editing like crazy, and they all know that he's digging fucking *deep* to come *up* with things to say about the man.

It hurts, more and more, and finally even Dick gives up and starts telling stories about *his* parents while they keep an ear on what the housekeeper is doing downstairs.

Jason can feel Tim getting tired, but he can *also* feel Tim fighting it as hard as he can. He's not looking forward to his own dreams, either.

Finally, silently, Tim starts to cry, ignoring it until his collar starts getting wet, and then stripping off angrily, using the shirt to scrub at his face—

"Tim? Your mother's on the phone!" The housekeeper from the foot of the stairs— "Did you hear me, Tim?"

"Yes! Thank you, Mrs. Mac," Tim says, voice thick and obvious—

Oh, yeah. It's supposed to be. Jason hands Tim the cordless—

"Yes, it's me, Mom. I—"

Jason can feel Dick looking at him.

"I know. I know. Mom, are you okay?"

Jason squeezes his eyes shut. Just—for a moment—

"All right. I understand. But—"

He opens them, and fuck if Tim isn't pulling on his damned game face. What is she *saying* to him?

"Tomorrow. All right. I'll. Mom, I'm so sorry—"

And Jason can't hear *exactly* what the woman is saying, but it's loud enough that Tim winces and holds the phone away from his ear—it stops.

"I won't, Mom. I promise. Yes. I—goodbye," Tim says, and presses the end button. And then rears back to throw the phone out the window—

Jason catches his arm. "You probably don't want to do that."

"You're probably right," and Tim drops the phone into Jason's hand. "She's upset. I think that's understandable."

"It really is, little brother—"

"And she—she just doesn't want me to. I think she'll probably." Tim's face crumples and he covers it with his shirt, muscles tense and flexing. The light catches the scars Jason has given him, and makes the two dozen or so small cuts Ivy had given him fade—

Jason pulls Tim into his arms again and strokes the back of his head, waiting it out and fucking *tasting* it, the bile of *whatever* the fuck it was the woman had said to Tim—

*Screamed* at him—

Tim gasps in a breath and makes a soft keening noise—and cuts himself off, stepping back. "She needs me to—be strong. She could hear that I'd been crying, and she doesn't *like* crying—"

"Fucking *A*—"

"*No*, Jay. It's—she. Everyone has their own ways of dealing with grief, and this is hers. She'd been giving statements all day, forced to go over and over her—her *ordeal*—"

"There's *nothing* wrong with crying, little brother—"

"I *know* that," Tim says—*snarls*. "I—I know. It's just that she's under a lot of *pressure* right now—"

Jason grabs Tim again, and this time Tim grabs fistfuls of Jason's shirt and starts banging his head against Jason's chest. The body-armor Jason's wearing can't hurt him too badly, but it's still fucking horrible to feel, to *see*—

And Dick's looking at *him* like maybe he has any answers.

He doesn't. But he can damned well hold on.


	31. Chapter 31

The next few days revolve around patrolling, sleeping, and stalking Tim's neighborhood for those times when he's not being there for his fucking mother, who has thrown herself into liquid grief with a fucking vengeance. She had Tim mixing her martinis for a while, but his failure to make them strong enough *quickly* lost him that job.

The housekeeper is gamely keeping on, but there's only so much of being screamed at by Janet Drake for no good reason the woman's going to take. And then... what?

Will she call in child services? Bruce would step in in a heartbeat—if Jason had to drag him to the courthouse by his goddamned necktie—but would Tim be able to handle leaving her?

Every day, Tim talks patiently about getting her counseling. Every night, three sheets to the wind, she agrees that it's a wonderful idea and promises to make the call tomorrow. The business is in the hands of the executive vice president.

The funeral arrangements are all made—thanks, subtly, to Alfred—but Jack Drake's body hasn't been released. It's entirely possible that the woman will calm the fuck down once he's back in the States and in the ground, but Jason has his doubts. Booze makes a lot of bad fucking behavior *too* easy.

And Tim...

Yesterday, he'd explained—in that way where *all* of them knew that he was pulling out his own fucking liver to do it—that he couldn't handle keeping Dick away from his girlfriend and his team, anymore, and that having Dick around was harder than not. Dick had fought hard—hard enough that Tim had actually started *begging*—and that was too ugly for Dick to deal with. He's gone, now, and it's just him keeping watch.

Bruce is taking care of the city, and hiding from the fact that he'd failed Tim, and that can't...

God, that can't *last*. It's not his fault, and maybe Jason should be working harder to make Bruce see that... he doesn't know.

Right now, Tim is eating dinner next to his mother, who's drinking it. Tim said the housekeeper had started cooking Janet's favorites, and—everything about Tim is clear and calm, except for the tension that's hard enough to make Tim look like he'll fucking shatter at *any* given moment.

From what Jason has seen, Tim hasn't cried since the first day, but maybe that feels like payment for all the things Jason *hasn't* said about the situation he's living in. Jason *could* take Tim out for patrols, but Tim had benched himself without a moment's hesitation—

("I will kill someone, Jason. And I think I'll enjoy it a great deal.")

And there's a part of him that's just laughing itself sick about *that*. Isn't that what he'd wanted? Isn't that what he'd *trained* Tim for?

God, every fucking *moment* without him—

Every moment watching him like *this*—

And then his heart is in his throat, because that blue flutter at the edge of his vision is Bruce pausing to announce himself before crouching at Jason's side.

Jason takes a breath. "Thank God you're finally here."

"I didn't know—no. I knew I had to be."

Jason nods. "He needs someone other than me."

"He doesn't need *me*—"

"Stop. Just stop, B," Jason says, and turns to look at Bruce. "He hasn't asked for you, but he *wouldn't*. He doesn't think he deserves anyone. Add to that the *fact* that he blames me and *not* you—"

"Do you know that for sure?"

"Yeah, I do. I told him that you weren't able to save both of his parents in the other world, and you did *better* than that Bruce."

"Because Janet Drake is... well."

"She's not well at all, but she's physically healthy. For now."

Bruce nods. "I monitored the cameras I have in their home. I—listened," Bruce says, and he sounds like he wants a confessor.

It's so very *much* not the first time he'd heard that tone in Bruce's voice. Jason shakes his head. "She's no good for him, B."

Bruce frowns. "She's his mother."

"She should *act* like it—"

"What," Bruce says, and covers Jason's hand with his own, all but fucking *begging* for a pause.

"I'm listening, B."

"What do you think he needs?"

His father to be alive and well, doing whatever it is he does that makes his mother *not* drink like it's going out of style. Jason does his own frowning. "More than what we can give him—but that doesn't mean we shouldn't *be* giving."

Bruce nods and squeezes Jason's hand. "I could tell how thirsty they were. How it had become... another sort of torture."

The poison was in the water the so-called Obeah man had been *displaying* for the Drakes... "Yeah, B?"

"I didn't have water with me—I'd consumed my own supply during the stakeout. I... did you know that the man had drunk from the pitcher, himself? He'd spent years building up a tolerance to various poisons, the better to impress his followers," Bruce says, and sounds like he's right back there watching. "I didn't think."

"There's no way you could've known—"

"I almost knocked *over* the pitcher during the fight, Jay. I—as soon as I freed him, Drake picked the whole pitcher up and poured the water down his throat, over his face... his wife was reaching for it when he collapsed."

Selfish to the end—no, that's not what Bruce wants to hear from him. "How long did it take for emergency services to get there?"

"Forty minutes—impressive, considering how deep into the jungle we were." Bruce shakes his head. "By then, Jack Drake had been dead for thirty-nine and a *half* minutes."

"Fuck."

Bruce grunts. "If I hadn't waited—"

"Then you might've been dead, too."

"I meant—when I was supposed to leave. They were kidnapped before they reached their hotel, Jay. The Arkham alarm—"

"B, we all have reflexes. You've been... it'd been months since you had anything resembling back-up, and you'd *never* had back-up who could handle that kind of thing without you."

Bruce doesn't say anything, but he might as well be *screaming* 'not good enough.'

"C'mon, B, what *good* is going to come out of you beating yourself up?"

"Being beaten...?" Bruce hums and shakes his head. "No, Jay, I know what you're saying, and I even understand it. When Dick lost his parents, I—eventually—explained to myself that there was nothing I could've done. When... when Two-Face began murdering the men who worked for him, I hadn't paid enough attention to the family life of your father and, eventually, I explained to myself that there was nothing I could've done. This time, I had all the information it was possible *to* have, including where the crime was going to take place—"

"Yeah, right, because my narrowing it down to a *country* was all that fucking helpful—"

"You have to see where I'm going with this, Jay. I *can't* help wondering if, perhaps, a part of me is working against the rest—and working *for* companionship for myself. How deep would I have to dig to find something like that? To find that *impulse*?"

"Further than you *go*, Bruce—"

Bruce's cape snaps in the light breeze, and Jason knows that if they were in the Cave or the manor right now, Bruce would be pacing, and, perhaps, growling.

"I *know* you, remember? I know exactly what you are and aren't capable of—maybe better than anyone else *including* yourself."

Bruce looks at him, and even with the cowl on, Jason knows he's being searched. Fucking *studied*.

Jason looks right back, flipping his lenses up so he can make *sure* that Bruce is seeing all of it—

"How much of your comfort is based on the idea of you being capable of far more—and far less—than I am?"

"I *am*, Bruce, and we both know it, but no, that's not it. It's *you*, and the fact that you were born to be a hero—more so than anyone I've ever met. I. God, I *tried* to fucking turn you in that other world—"

"Jay—"

"No. Listen to me, all right? I gave you a chance to have me *back*. All you had to do was let Joker die. You didn't even have to *do* anything—just not save him. And I would be there. I would've given you anything, right up to me moving back into the manor and being your partner again. Hell, I even planned to stop beating the crap out of Tim whenever I saw him—call it icing."

"I could never... murder isn't—"

"You took an Oath, yeah, and you gave it to all of us in turn. I *broke* that oath—all the fuck over the place—but you still wanted me—"

"Because I *love* you, Jason. All of you, and I always have. I can't—I can *remember* a time when I didn't love you, of course, but I *can't* remember a time when I wasn't waiting for you," Bruce says, and cups Jason's face.

The gauntlet is cool and slick on Jason's cheek, and... yeah, this is getting away from things. "I know all that. But you could *never* love anyone enough to kill for them, or even step back away from your Mission a *little* bit. I know it, Dick knows it, and Tim knows it, too."

Bruce sucks in a breath and nods, moving his hand from Jason's cheek. "I... I've missed you, Jason."

"I... haven't exactly been around much, no. I know. I miss you, too."

Bruce smiles, teeth showing for a heartbeat. "Perhaps that shouldn't please me as much as it does."

Jason snorts. "Yeah, well, you wouldn't be *you* if it didn't, so... go with it."

Bruce nods and covers Jason's hand again. "Tell me how he's taking care of his mother."

"He's been leaving snack-type foods in reach of her favorite drinking spots, instructing the housekeeper to keep what are apparently her favorite juices in the house, turning her on her side when she passes out—that kind of thing. It's not—"

"Enough, no. He has no other family, Jay."

"I know."

"His mother needs help that she can't get at home. I... perhaps Bruce Wayne should pay a visit."

Now *that's* an idea, but— "How are you going to swing it?"

"I asked Dick to come back down tomorrow. Dick has taken Tim under his wing in recent months—after a chance meeting in the city during one of Dick's frequent visits."

Jason whistles softly. "Yeah, that could do it—but she might turn on Tim for spreading her problems around. That wouldn't be good for anyone, B."

"Then I will just have to be subtle," Bruce says, and stands. "Watch him. Tell him I'm coming. Try... try to make him see that it would be for the best, and only temporary."

"That... he has reason not to trust *me* about these things—"

"Because you didn't give him the chance to stop his parents' trip, himself. Yes, I can understand that. Tell him I'll do my best to come *tonight*, then," and Bruce clenches his hands into fists. "Jay... thank you for telling Dick and Tim what you know about what—might—happen. For giving me the opportunity to hear, and to prepare."

Jason pushes a hand back through his hair. "Just don't work so hard *to* prepare that you set off something nastier, B."

Another smile. "We all do what we can," he says, and leaps off the far edge of the roof. Jason reflexively listens for the grapple and, once he hears it, returns his attention to the Drakes.

He spends the next hour listening to Tim talk up the therapy and rehab places he's been studying, just as if he hadn't done it the night before and the night before that.

He watches Janet Drake slip into her bedroom and close the door, taking off the robe that's the only thing she'd bothered to put on today. She's a good-looking woman and Jason wants her—gone. Not dead. Not *really*—though that's mostly because she's alive right now and he's looking at her.

He couldn't put a bullet through her skull. He couldn't strangle her or slit the throat that looks so much like Tim's own.

Right now, she's hugging herself and staring blindly at all the things she and her husband had collected over the years. Normal toys like the big-screen TV and the mahogany furniture that had to have set them back a pretty penny, and the other things—statues and art from all over the world. Places they'd never bothered to let Tim see.

She hugs herself.

She cries, silently and copiously.

She stops, and pulls a bottle of vodka from under the bed. She usually likes her vodka cold, but for this time of night... the thing's already half-empty, but she's a small woman. It'll last her until she passes out.

In the kitchen, the housekeeper is preparing a platter of foods to Tim's undoubtedly careful specifications. If the routine is the same as the last few nights, Tim will wait a good twenty minutes—until Janet's taken some hits off the bottle and has crawled into bed—before knocking on the door.

Janet will yell at him for something—maybe for something like putting the wrong fruit on the tray—and Tim will apologize and leave the tray on the night table. He'll move to kiss her goodnight, she'll offer her cheek, and Tim will go back to his room and stare into the darkness while pretending to meditate.

That's what Jason's waiting for, and that's pretty much exactly what he gets—except that the yelling, this time, is about the fact that Tim hadn't gotten the housekeeper to change the drapes to darker ones.

Tim will do that the very next day, but the woman will still find something else that night.

Jason waits until Tim is in his bedroom and then goes, pushing in—

"I don't know what to do," and Tim's voice is exhausted and this close to fucking *dead*.

"I get that, baby bro," Jason says, toeing off his boots and sitting next to Tim on his bed, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling all that tension and pain against his own body—

"She's going to get. She's going to get sick."

"I know that, too. Bruce—Bruce is coming tonight, if he can. After his patrol."

"Do you think... did he have any ideas?"

Jason kisses the top of Tim's head. "Bruce *Wayne*—and Dick Grayson—are going to show up at your door tomorrow to have a talk with your mother about maybe... taking a little break. Dick's your good friend, and you'd just love to spend some more time with him."

"That. I'm not sure that would work, Jay. I mean, she doesn't want to. She says she wants to. I. She's not an *alcoholic*."

They never are—that won't help. "It's going to take some manipulation. They're probably going to need your help—"

"*Speaking* of manipulation—" Tim pushes away from Jason and gets up off the bed. He doesn't pace and he doesn't say anything else, just stands there off to the side of the light from the street, a shadow in shadows.

Where Jason belongs. "I wasn't trying to manipulate you—"

Tim snorts—

"But I can deal with the fact that I was doing it anyway. I'm just not as *good* at it as you are—"

"I've *never* tried to manipulate you—"

"No, you haven't. But you've had a whole lot of people dancing to your tune these past few months, and..." Jason sighs and doesn't squeeze his eyes shut. "You're going to have to do it *more*."

Silence.

Silence—

"I don't want to," Tim says, quiet and—fucking young.

"I know—"

"You *don't*, Jay. You never had to play your own—your own *fucking* family."

"If I had, they might still be alive. One or two of them, anyway—"

"Oh yes, there's *that*," Tim says, laughing low and hard. "Is that why you didn't give me a chance to stop this? Because you thought I'd do too good a job?"

Fucking ouch. Jason digs the heels of his hands in against his eyes and lets himself fall back on Tim's bed—

"It is, isn't it, Jay? You have so much *faith* in me. You—you know what I can do when I'm *motivated*."

"Tim—"

"Stop pretending you give a *shit* about me saving my mother's fucking *life*, Jay—"

"I'm not, and I don't—except for how *not* managing to do it would affect *you*," Jason says, and sits up on his elbows. "Now would you come back over here?"

"And if I don't particularly feel like touching you right now?"

"Then that's fair, Tim. I... I don't want you to hurt. Can you believe that?"

Tim swallows audibly and turns toward the window. "Too much."

"All right. Can you believe that Bruce's motivations are cleaner than mine? Because they *are*."

"Yes. Yes, I believe. I... what am I supposed to do once you all—with my *help*—get my mother packaged away in some rehab spa and I'm a resident of the manor? Get back to work?"

"When you're ready." Which had—

"Which had better be soon, yes, I know," Tim says, and moves to turn the lamp on beside the bed. The shadows make the hollows under his eyes even deeper than they actually are, and all Jason wants to do is knock the kid out and take him *home*.

He'll keep Tim there, and make him feel better *somehow*. Bruce and Dick will *help* with that—

"What about the funeral, Jay? She—she has to be there."

"She will be. If she can handle it. Or do you really want her there if she *can't*?"

"She won't—it's not like she'll hurl herself onto the casket as they lower it into the *dirt*, Jay—"

"But there are other things," Jason says, and reaches out for Tim.

Tim takes his hand and curls up next to him, shuddering and sighing. "She told me that she wished she hadn't agreed to go. That Haiti in the summer was a stupid vacation choice, anyway, but that DI was looking to expand a little. That it was a *research* trip."

Jason strokes Tim's arm. "Yeah?"

"I said that I was sorry, again. I really. I shouldn't have done that. She doesn't need to hear that, because she already blames *herself* for not fighting harder not to go—"

"Tim—"

"She. She told me that if I'd tried to keep her and my father home, they would've had to talk to me about being too. Too clingy."

Fucking *hell*. *He* hadn't heard that conversation, but he's willing to bet Bruce *had*. "You're not clingy."

"Says the man currently setting aside a portion of each day just to cuddle me into submission."

"You're *not* fucking clingy—"

"It would explain so much, don't you think? You can't *let* people like me too close, or we'll just latch on like... like *lampreys*—"

"*No*," Jason says, flipping them until he's straddling Tim and has a grip on both of his shoulders. "It's not like that. *You're* not like that. If anything, it's me. I can't stay away from you. I can't let you *go*—"

"Perhaps I manipulated you into that. You have such a *soft* spot for children in need of affection, you know. It didn't take very long at all for you to notice that I never fought you or criticized, that I took every insult and *slam*..." Tim's smile looks almost drugged—

It's possible he means poisoned. "Don't go there, Tim."

"Why shouldn't I? I was such an obviously *lonely* child, and I never asked for too much—I never asked for *anything*. It got to be an itch in you, didn't it? It started to drive you a little crazy, because *everyone* needs something, and you could tell I wasn't getting it at home."

God. "You're fubar right now, Tim. You don't really know—"

"What I'm saying? Oh, I think I do. A few needy looks from my wide, wide eyes, proof that I would do *anything* you said and like it... do you really think you stood a chance against me, Jay? And Dick... well, *he* was easy. You gave me the pieces yourself—including ones you probably didn't think about. It just didn't take all that long to figure out that the reason he kept trying with *you* was that *he's* lonely. God knows he shouldn't be, but this is one *fucked* up family, isn't it? Dick thinks that all he *really* wanted was a little brother and the love and regard of his father/mentor, but there'll be something else sooner or later. That hollow in him will demand to be filled—"

"*Stop*, Tim—"

"Just like the hollow in you will. And the hollow in *Bruce*... well, he's better off than the rest of us, when you think about it. He *knows* there's something wrong with him, that he'll never be satisfied or happy, so he takes what happiness he can *when* he can. He takes whatever he can *get*, doesn't he? I know you saw it with your *own* relationship with him—ow."

Jason stops squeezing Tim's shoulders mostly through force of *will*—"And what about you, Tim? What's your damage *exactly*?"

"Well, there's this *great* big hole in me which is all about the fact that my parents never loved me enough to try to get to know me. All those fantasies I had about Dad taking me into work again—yes, he *did* only do it once—to show me off to his colleagues are never going to happen. All those fantasies about Mom taking me aside to show me *exactly* how she gets things done with *her* colleagues... well, you know, maybe she *will* do it. But probably only if I show signs of majoring in something like literature or philosophy in college. So long as I don't do any of *that*, she'll just assume I'll take over the business when the time comes, and treat me like shit when I do something wrong—or do something in a way she *wouldn't*," Tim says, and smiles a little wider. "That's what you want to hear, isn't it? Proof that I *know* what bad parents they are?"

"Fuck, Tim, no, I don't want—"

"No, you're right, *I'm* sorry. You want me not to *love* them. Well, Jay, why don't you tell me *exactly* how that works? Is there a meditation for it? Maybe a little mental trick?"

Jason closes his eyes and lets go of Tim's shoulder, settling back a little. Just—he needs to think, because whatever he says right now has to work, has to pull Tim out of this at least a *little* bit—

"You know what? Don't try," and Tim sits up on his elbows and scoots out from under him. "You should go."

"Tim, I can't leave you like this. I just—I can't."

"*You* have patrol to do. Or maybe you can just sit on top of that little anomaly sensor of yours and *wish* real hard for a universe you *haven't* fucked up in. Hey, third time's the charm, right?"

Jason strokes Tim's face with his fingertips, and—Tim lets him. He *lets* him, and that has to be enough for something, even with that hard fucking look in Tim's eyes—

("Hard things shatter, little one. And there will always be someone ready and willing to exert the necessary force to make it happen.")

He snorts a little helplessly—

And there's fear in Tim's eyes, *just* that quickly.

"You're afraid of what I'm going to say."

Tim clenches his jaw and *starts* to look away—and then turns right back to face him.

Jason nods. "You're so damned strong, Tim. You can take so *much*—but the idea of me leaving still kills you—"

"*Fuck* you for trying to use that against me—"

"You can't just quit loving someone, no. That's the point of all this, right? Well, *most* of the point. The rest is that this feels like a giant waste. Two good *enough* people, and now one of them's dead while the other one is drinking herself to death. Well, it *is* a waste, and *part* of it's my own fault, and I'm sorry. I *would've* done it differently if I had another chance—"

"Is that what you'll tell yourself when you leave, Jay? That you'll do it *right* this time? Teach me to *hate* my parents before you let them get kidnapped?"

Maybe, offers the part of him which has never been anything but an asshole. The rest of the voices in his head are shrugging hard and being *useless*—"I love you," Jason says. "That's—that's pretty much all I've got, Tim."

"Please go."

"Please don't *make* me go—"

"I'll talk to Bruce when he comes. I'll come up with a plan to package my mother up and ship her *out*, because I trust Bruce to find some. Someplace nice. Once she's gone, I *will* be a little better, and then I'll be able to go back out on the street, because anything else would just make me feel too pathetic to live."

"Tim—"

"But right now, I need you gone, Jay. And this isn't where you force me to accept your love and comfort and all the fucking *good* things, because I can't take them right now. Get *out*."

And that... that. Jason nods, and reaches to cup Tim's face, and presses his forehead against Tim's own. "I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing because something reminded me of Talia, and that was about the most inappropriate thing which *could* pop into my head just then."

Tim shudders. "All right. Fine. Go."

Jason does.


	32. Chapter 32

He keeps his distance for the next few days. At first, Dick keeps him in the loop, telling him about the fucking *resort* Bruce had found for the inimitable Mrs. Drake and letting him know that Tim's as settled in at the manor as he could be. His room is right next to Dick's, but he apparently spends more time in Bruce's.

Dick asks—as carefully and gently as he can, which is *very*—when Jason is going to come back, and Jason tells him that he's giving Tim time. The fact that Dick doesn't fight it tells Jason all he needs to know about how welcome he *isn't* as far as Tim's concerned, so—

He patrols for longer periods of time, taking larger areas of the city for his own and trying to figure out who, exactly, he wants to be.

He has no problem whatsoever taking a knife to a rapist, but what *about* the muggers?

The gang members often force him to use some of the nastiest tricks he knows, but then there are the armed robbers, the addicts beating each other down just to get enough cash for the next hit—

The pimps *always* get the knife, and he thinks about all the stories he hasn't told Tim about his mother. Things like hanging the washing line in their tiny living room so she could save the few dollars she'd have to spend to dry their clothes, or things like how she'd taught him how to sneak into movie theaters, and how to pick the *right* food to steal, the kind that would last and give you at least some of the nutrients they needed.

He thinks about his father, rotting in the ground.

He thinks about Sheila Haywood, and how much prettier she was than the woman who had raised him, how it would've been to grow up a nurse's son, rather than a pro's...

A dirty nurse.

There's always silence from the sensor, and, every once in a while, he lets himself think about what he's going to do the day there isn't. How he'll hop on his bike—Bruce's bike—and head right over, how he'll look through and see a world—

A Gotham—

A Bruce?

A Tim?

He eats and he sleeps. He trains and he patrols—avoiding Batman and Robin.

He waits—

And he fights back the urge to grin like a fucking maniac when the shadows flash blue while he's busily rearranging a drug-dealer's face. He's twenty now, and he can fucking well *control* himself—

Even when Bruce hands him a zip-strip *just* before he was going to reach for one of his own.

Jason leaves the drugs in artistic scatter, takes a moment to say a prayer to the multiverse that the dried blood he can *see* on the guy's knife will tie him to something with some jail time, and follows Bruce to r-point twenty-seven, soaking in the rhythms of the flight, the *look* of that cape—

Fuck it, he says—emphatically to himself—and kisses the hell out of the man, cupping his face—

He breaks the kiss to tear off his glove with his teeth and then dives right back into it, stroking the cowl and pushing at it *just* a little.

Bruce pulls him close and *deepens* the kiss—

Bruce tastes like coffee and smells like home, and God, fucking *God*—

And what a *special* reflex it is to pull back just as he's getting hard. Jason smacks himself around internally and copes with it while he presses his cheek against Bruce's gauntlet—

"Jay..."

"Uh, hunh. What do you need to tell me?"

"Come home with me."

*Not* a surprise, but— "Where's Robin?"

"Hopefully, enjoying his new bike on the way there," Bruce says, and there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He can play. "*Another* new bike...?"

"Nightwing pointed out that he was more than responsible enough to handle the power of one... and that Robin needed it."

"And also he looks damned good on it?"

Bruce hums. "He came very close to smiling when he saw it. He... has given me reason to believe that he cares for me, Jay," and now the smile is *hauling* at the corners of his mouth.

"Of *course* he does, B. You..." Jason shakes his head. "You're *you*. And... Dick told me the two of you were spending more time together."

He gets a nod for that. "I want... do you think." And now Bruce is frowning and turning away—

"Hey, no, what is it?"

"I want to adopt him."

Okay, yeah, that *is* worth a bit of pain in the old brain pan. "Uh—Bruce."

"I know it's a terrible idea. I've thus far managed to avoid bringing it up."

"*Probably* a good thing right there, B. You know he's kind of one big *wound* when it comes to the whole *idea* of parents, right? I mean, I stuck the knife in, myself—"

"Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that you twisted it," Bruce says, and smiles again for him—and it *is* for him, because it's the smile that used to scare the hell out of him.

The one that makes Bruce look one hell of a lot younger than he is. Than he should be. Now, though... Jason moves close again and pushes his bare fingers between Bruce's gauntleted ones.

The squeeze is cautious and—all kinds of welcome. "Jay—"

"I love you, and you're not well, B. You're just—you've been screwing him every night, haven't you?"

Bruce nods and flips his lenses up, letting Jason see the search, the open, the—everything, including fear. "Making love to him is nothing like... it's like nothing else. The passion he shows, the pain it causes him, the way he demands *more* even when..." He closes his eyes. "I want him to be my son, as well."

"Maybe you can settle for him being your son in your *heart*? Because I think that would be a better plan."

"When I asked if you would allow me to adopt you—"

"I treated it like it was nothing, I know. You were all but *screaming* that you wanted to do me, and I was wondering how long I would have a home if I said no—*don't* interrupt. I know that you wouldn't have thrown me out."

Bruce nods again, but the frown is back.

Jason squeezes Bruce's hand again. "I didn't take it seriously. My parents were dead, and here *you* were. Rich, a little crazy in the head... I don't know, B. I thought of it as *insurance* more than anything else—"

"You are my son, Jason. In—my heart."

"I know that, B. And you've been more my father than the guy who completely failed to raise me by a long road. And it *won't* be long until you've been more of a father to Tim than Jack Drake. But just—wait, okay? Hold it *back* as much as you can, and... I don't know. We can revisit the topic another time, okay? And Dick—you should definitely talk to Dick about it—"

"Tim is already his brother—"

"*After* you finally tell *him* how you feel."

"I did... I did tell him. That night when you sent him to me. He told me he'd think about whether or not he wanted me to formally adopt him."

Jason blinks a little—but it makes sense. Probably nothing else *could* have made Dick relax that much, but... "He *probably* doesn't think you still think of him that way, though, B."

"Because we've made love."

Jason bites his lip and nods, nice and slowly.

"Sometimes I'm quite sure you think I'm *dangerously* insane, Jay."

"Sometimes? You're absolutely right," Jason says, pushing against Bruce enough that he can breathe his breath, taste him a little. "It just makes me love you more, though."

Bruce hums again. "Come home with me. Be with us for as long as you can, Jay—"

"I need to give Tim his *space*, B. You—he needed me gone."

"That was then—"

"He knows where to *find* me—"

"*Trust* in me, Jay," Bruce says, squeezing hard enough to make Jason wince.

"Come home, J," and that was Tim, in his ear. "I. Need you."

Jason blows out a breath. "Then I'm there." And maybe that shouldn't have come out as easily as it did, maybe it shouldn't feel that fucking *right*—

But the smile in Bruce's eyes is making him fucking *sweat*. Yeah.

And Bruce had parked the car on the street *right* by the alley where Jason had left the bike. Jason follows Bruce for a while, and then lets the bike do exactly what it wants to. Bruce can damned well catch *up*.

He gets in, he parks, he starts stripping off, making a beeline for the cocoa, the cookies, and the boy currently holding the tray with something *almost* resembling a smile in his eyes. The cocoa's at just the right temperature to chug, and the cookie tastes better once he's kissing Tim, backing him toward a table where he can put the tray down, kissing him again, feeling him, *having* him— wait.

He pulls back. "*What* do you need me for?"

"Ah—you. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"There isn't anything that comes after that," Tim says, and shakes his head. "The 'mostly' was reflexive. I think. I'm not. I'm not sure about anything that isn't on the street right now, Jay—"

"That's all right. You don't have to be."

"I think Bruce... wants something from me," Tim says, and picks up his own mug of cocoa. There's a hint of cinnamon in the scent, which would *help* explain the way Jason's tongue is still tingling. "I don't know what it is, though."

"I do. And you don't need to think about it, baby bro... Tim. Tell me why you're in workout clothes?"

Tim strokes a hand over his own abdomen. "I'm not tired enough. I'm not. I think—I don't. I *hate* this," he says, setting his mug down with *careful* force and covering his face with his hands.

"Tim—"

"Part of me needed to know that you'd come when I called. And I think that's both petty and pathetic. And I miss my mother so much. So much. And she's in a better place. Except that that makes it sound like she's dead. My father is dead, and in the ground, and you know what that's *like*—"

Jason pulls Tim close and holds on, just breathing against the top of his head until *Tim's* breathing slows to match his own—

"Oh, God. Oh, God. I was *all right* on the street. I didn't—all the mistakes I made were minor. I learned things. I helped people."

"You're Robin. That's what you *do*."

"Then why am I so fucked up *now*?"

"Because you're grieving, and the only person who knows the man you're grieving for as well as you do isn't around to *be* with you."

"But it's my *fault* that she isn't. That—I *twisted* her until she agreed, and I—she had to go there, Jay, she. Fuck," Tim says, stepping back and scrubbing at his face with his hands. "I think I'm going for a run around the grounds. You're welcome to join me."

"Ah—probably you should save that for *daylight*, Tim—"

Tim drops his hands. "Why? Because it's not *safe*? Are you *serious*?"

Jason bites the inside of his cheek and stares at the hands which aren't holding Tim, anymore. "Okay, you've got a point."

"I *know* I do. I... join me? Please?"

"Just give me a minute to change."

And it's a pretty nice almost-dawn, as these things go this close to Gotham. The stars are few and far between—and faded, too—the air can't decide whether it wants to be green-sweet or faintly salty from the ocean, and the crickets are sawing away like their lives depend on it.

They probably *do* for some reason, and he'll bet Tim can tell him for sure, but it's enough to be running with him. It's almost like the first days, a little, when he'd lead Tim through the various Gotham neighborhoods, sometimes taking him on the subway so they could get to know places that were further away...

Except that Tim is a *good* runner now, better suited for it than Jason will *ever* be, and it shows. He lets Tim take the lead so he can watch, taking in his posture and rhythm, the lightness of his step...

He moves up beside him again. "You know I don't care if you *do* get incoherent on me, right?"

"I hate it. It's like having a permanent game of free-association going on in my head, and at any moment the psychiatrist will explain that no, I'm really *not* suited for this life, and that I should just go—home."

"You *are* home."

"Yes, well. I have several reasons for not wanting to see it that way, all of which you already know."

Jason grunts his assent and lets Tim lead them into the woods, wishing idly for his night-vision lenses, or maybe just a chainsaw. "How much do you like places like this?"

"Wooded areas?"

"Trees, grass. *Nature* in general."

"Not as much as Ivy. Probably a bit more than you."

"Pretty wide range there..."

"When my paternal grandparents were alive, they lived in Kent, up in Connecticut. My grandmother would pack me a lunch and send me out to explore. There were frogs. I like frogs."

Well... okay. "What were they like? Your grandparents, I mean."

"Distant. Almost aloof, really. By the time I was six years old, I was absolutely positive that they only saw me as proof that their son could produce a reasonably acceptable heir. They periodically quizzed me on current events, worked to instill traditional Republican values, and did their level best to make sure I wasn't spoiled."

"Uh—what does *that* mean?"

"Spoiled? Oh, they were very clear in their minds about the danger that comes from lavishing young children with unnecessary affection, especially if that child is a boy. I believe they were worried that I'd become a homosexual."

"Jesus fucking Christ—"

"No, Jason, I *don't* have any family members you would approve of. I mean, I suppose there might be some distant cousins, but they would have to be *very* distant, and—anyway. The elder Drakes had a beautiful home on beautiful grounds."

"I... really didn't mean to make you think about things which would fuck with you more, Tim."

Tim smiles at him, teeth flashing in the shadows. "I know. And it's all right. It *was* time for me to cope with the fact that I just wasn't raised very *well*. That I would, in fact, never treat a child of my own the way I was treated. I had to start dealing with everything that *meant*."

"No argument, baby bro, but—fuck. Now?"

"Now. Tell me about your mother. I—I'm sorry I spoke about her the way I did."

"She spoke about herself that way, sometimes. Mostly when she'd done something stupid with the money like buying fifty bucks worth of lottery tickets," Jason says, and just barely notices a fallen tree in time to leap over it.

And—he doesn't need to see it. He can *feel* Tim wincing.

"Anyway, what do you want to know?"

"What... when she wanted to spend time with you, how did you know it?"

"Well... she'd come find me. If I had the blankets pulled in front of my bedroom—my corner of the living room—she'd pull them aside and tell me that it was time for us to take a walk. If I was out on the street somewhere, she'd come walking up—it doesn't matter where I was, she always knew—and take me home. If we were just hanging around at home, she'd pull out this old, worn deck of cards..." God, the cards. He'd brought them here with him, and...

He *knows* Bruce had kept them, but where would they be stashed?

"I—anyway. She taught me every card game she knew. She had a couple of regular johns that would call her for *just* that. A fourth for bridge, or hearts, or spades... why—" No, he knows why Tim is asking.

And Tim doesn't call him on the almost-question, just veers them a little to the east. Okay, then.

"She wasn't perfect by a long road. She kept getting hooked up with pimps that would abuse her, steal from her, show up at the apartment in the middle of the night to make her go back out and work... shit like that. She had an on-again, off-again love affair with cheap gin, and when she was drunk, she'd forget that thing about never bringing johns home—one of them gave me the scar I have on my forehead."

"I. I don't think I can imagine—"

"You *will* be able to imagine it one day, though. That's just one of the things this life gives you, Tim."

"All right. What... what about your father?"

"Apparently he stuck around until I was almost three, but I don't really remember that, at all. Then he was in jail, and my mother never brought us to see him, so I thought maybe that my mother just hadn't *needed* a man to make me until I was seven or so, and then I just assumed that my father was one of her johns. He got out just before I turned eight, and then he was... in and out. He'd stick around for a whole month, and then he'd be out running jobs with one crew or another. He'd show up with a wad of cash one week, and then take money out of my mother's purse the next. He was pretty much useless, Tim. I don't have any memories of him that I'd call good."

Tim moves closer to him, close enough that their arms brush a little as they run. They're out of the wooded area and burning over the lawns, now, and Jason wonders how much Tim will want to do, tonight.

"Is there anything else you want to know?"

"Yes. But I'm not. I feel as though I've already asked too much—"

"I'll let you know if I need to not answer a question about this stuff, okay? I—" Owe you this, and a lot more, besides. "It's okay for you to know it."

"Have you ever talked about it with Bruce or Dick?"

Well... "Not in specifics like this. I think Bruce knew all he needed to when he figured out my father was *that* Willis Todd."

"I... suppose I can see that. I just... was your mother still alive when you started working as a prostitute?"

"Yeah, but she was sick as hell by then. The girls—her friends—who showed me the ropes were all pretty careful about making sure she didn't know they were turning her son out, and whenever she asked me about the money, I'd give her bullshit about working odd jobs and running numbers. If she knew, she didn't let on—we needed all the money we could get."

"You always knew she loved you."

"Yeah, I did."

"I... I heard my parents arguing once. I. I heard them argue a *lot*, but this one particular time they'd been arguing in their bedroom for over an hour, and that was *strange*. They usually took their arguments all over the house. So I went to listen at the door, and.

"Well, I think.

"I think the argument *started* over something to do with running the business, and it just went on from there, with the two of them bringing up example after example of why they couldn't trust the other's judgment. And."

He knows what's coming. He can fucking *feel* it— "I'm listening, Tim, but I don't have to be. I mean—you don't have to tell me."

"Yes, I do, because then. Then, maybe, I don't have to tell anyone else. And it's a small thing, and I'm sure a lot of people—she said she never wanted to have me. That it was all my father's and his parents' idea, and that the only reason she went along with it was to shut my father up about it. She said I was as passionless as my father was, and as dull. She said that he'd never have to doubt that I was his, and then they started talking about my mother's infidelities—"

"Stop," Jason says, and turns to pull Tim against him—

"*No*, Jay, I'm not—I mean, I dealt with it years ago, and anyway, she just *says* things when she's mad. Everyone says things they don't mean when they're mad—"

"If she has a soul—and I'm sure she does because I *saw* her crying for your father—" Or for *herself*—

"Really? She cried? She's always said that people who cry for any reason save extreme physical pain are asking for pity."

"Yeah, well, apparently she's human, too—"

"I've often thought. I mean, is 'humanity' really anything to aspire to, Jay?" Tim pulls back and looks up at him, and it's dark enough that it *would* be hard to read his eyes—

If Jason didn't already know what was there. But. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—we're *all* human. You, me, Bruce. The man I kneecapped tonight who'd broken his wife's jaw, the wife who'd stayed with that man long enough *for* him to do that, Ivy. Two-Face. I just think we should be *better* than human."

"Well... I can go with that, yeah, but you have to be *real* damned careful with how you *define* better—"

"I know that. I know—I know. You can't let yourself start thinking that certain "races" are better than others and... things like that—"

"Yeah, but *also* you can't start saying shitty things about people who cry. We *all* have to cry sometime, and maybe your mother's just learning that, but it's just one of those things. We have to cry, and laugh, and get horny when we see someone hot, and eat when we're hungry—all these little things that can *seem* small and even damaging or dangerous if you look at them in just the *wrong* way, but are just part of who we are."

"Hm."

That—Jason laughs a little and grips Tim's shoulders. "That was pretty fucking non-committal."

Tim strokes Jason's arms and looks down— "I think—I can't help but think that developing more control in general would be a good thing, for both our professional and private lives."

And see, Tim, this is *why* Bruce wants to be your Dad—no. "Control has its place, and I know I could use a lot more of it—"

"Your control is absolute," Tim says, and flashes his teeth again. "When you remember to use it."

Jason snorts and cups Tim's face. "Okay, fine. *Your* control is just fine. It's one thing to teach yourself how to hold your breath for longer periods of time, or how to slow down or speed up your heart rate, but trying to put a leash on your emotions can lead to some scary places. In the *bad* way."

Tim hums at him again.

Jason sighs. "Tim—"

"I know—I do know what you're saying, Jay. It's just that there's something like a voice in my head which only wants to tell me about how many things might have been easier for me over the years if I *had* had control of my emotions."

"Yeah, probably, but here's the deal—I've had that voice, too. It was telling *me* about how much easier—*better*—it was to be angry rather than other things, and I believed it. Part of me *still* believes it. And look what *I* got for it."

"A family who loves you and a purpose in life?"

Jason feels his eyes *wanting* to cross—

Tim laughs softly. "Yes, I *do* realize that I just glossed over a lot of bad things, but... but. It *does* help that you understand. I... I have someone who understands me. Who wants to understand me. I—" Tim makes a soft sound, something like the growl of a cornered animal, and pulls back all the way.

"Hey, come back here—"

"Let's—let's finish our run. And then. You'll stay? The night?"

The *day*, more like—

Home.

Jason closes his eyes. "Yeah, I'll stay."

"You don't—I don't want you to stay if you don't want to—"

"I *do* want to. And that's what I have the problem with—"

"Oh. You're not just talking about the night. You. You want to stay with—here?"

With me. With me. "I do. More... more than anything else—"

"Then—"

Jason covers Tim's mouth with his hand and leans in to kiss Tim's forehead. "Let's run."

For just a moment, it's bright enough that Jason can see everything in Tim's eyes, pain and fear, want and hope, desire and *love*—

And then Tim closes his eyes and turns away. And runs.

Tim takes them around to one of the alternate Cave entrances, and they jog in. Bruce stands up from the console as they get close and smiles at both of them, and he probably *can't* actually keep himself from putting one hand on Tim's shoulder and the other on Jason's, so it's just something to go with—

"Boys."

Jason raises his eyebrows. "I'm not fifteen anymore, B."

"No, you're not," Bruce says, and it sounds like that's something wonderful—hunh.

"How relieved are you that you still want me even though I'm not a kid, anymore?"

Tim makes a strangled sound—

Bruce's smile turns wry. "As relieved—and chagrinned—as I was when Dick became a young man, of course. I've had a great deal of time to consider the more uncomfortable facets of my sexuality. And the way I love," Bruce says, and moves his hand to Jason's face, tracing Jason's smile lines— "Shall I tell you more?"

Well... Jason looks at Tim, who's both blushing *and* paying a large amount of attention. Heh.

"Go ahead."

Bruce nods and steps back, beginning the process of stripping out of the uniform. "I noticed nothing untoward for a long time. Of course, I had to spend a large amount of my adolescence learning that there was nothing wrong with being sexually attracted to males..." He turns to Tim. "You seem to have never had that problem, Tim. Do you think it was the greater availability of the relevant information?"

"I—well. The internet has been extremely helpful, but I'm not sure... I mean, I met Dick when I was very young. That—made a large difference, I think."

"Mm. There is, perhaps, something to be said for a purity of focus," and Bruce lets the cape and cowl fall before starting to work on the chest armor. "In any event, I've never been attracted to very many people, at all, so the fact that I still found myself fantasizing about the touch of..."

"Harvey Dent," Jason says, and crosses his arms over his chest. "It's okay, B—I did ask."

Bruce nods and reaches out to touch Jason's face again. "All I can say is that he was beautiful in every way I knew how to measure. He was kind, open, generous, brilliant, dedicated, courageous... it seemed natural to love him, and to continue to love him. When I was twenty-five, I didn't fantasize about the boy he was when we were both fifteen, and there were no other boys in my life save for chance acquaintances on my travels."

"And you weren't attracted to any of them?"

"A pair of eyes in Thailand. A truly arresting smile in Brazil. The perfection of hard-worked bodies in Tibet... form meant almost nothing, and I never found a *friend* in my travels, as opposed to many teachers and fellow students. Perhaps if I'd been less driven, things would've been different. Different enough for me to take the time to *notice* that the forms I admired from a distance were on men—and women—of all ages."

"Ah..." Tim licks his lips. "*All* ages?"

Bruce shrugs off the chest armor, stretching and breathing. There's a large bruise over his ribs, but it doesn't look as though it will be severe. It's meaningless against the raw, simple *fact* of Bruce, massive and solid, hairy and scarred—

"Jesus, you just don't stop looking good, B," Jason says, and shakes his head.

Bruce smiles at him. "As ever, your appreciation is... appreciated," and he turns to Tim. "I can't be sure about *exactly* how old the youngest-seeming and oldest-seeming people I've found attractive are, but I'm reasonably sure there was no one younger than adolescent. As for the other end of the spectrum... don't you find there to be something magnetic about a body which has seen all that life has to offer? The physical evidence of experience can be incredibly... tempting." And Bruce rests his hand on Tim's scarred pec through Tim's shirt for a moment. 

Long enough for Tim to swallow and nod, and then Bruce sits down to take off his boots, and—

Jason moves a little closer, mostly because he can. "So there was no one but Harvey until Dick?"

"Well," Bruce says, and flashes another smile. "I realized that I had something of a... fascination for Jim Gordon—"

"Oh my God, I think you should stop right there," Jason says and shakes his head like a dog. "Okay, I know he was young once, I've seen the pictures, but he still had that *mustache*."

"Some people find a good mustache quite distinguished, Jay," Bruce says, and actually sounds a little fucking *arch*—

"Some people—find new ways to *disturb* me each and every fucking *day*. God, B, he's a *cop*—"

"And a very good one. Brave, again. A wonderful detective. Focused on bettering Gotham and, by extension, the world. Open-minded and kind. Warm and always willing to extend the hand of friendship..." Bruce hums and sets his bare feet on the stone, leaning back in his chair and frowning. "Dick told me that he was worried for how I'd feel in the aftermath of the latest Two-Face incident. He's a very good man."

"He's old enough—" Jason cuts himself off *much* too late, because Bruce's smile is fucking *vicious*. Jason raises his hands. "Spare me, B. I'll be *good*, I swear—"

Bruce hums again and turns to Tim. "What do you think of Jim?"

"Me? I—I'm reserving judgment. I'm willing to go with the idea that he's been a valuable ally, and I'm sure you're all right about him, but it seems... I don't know. I do wonder what sort of police officer he can truly be if he doesn't mind flouting the law *on* Central night after night."

If anything, the light in Bruce's eyes gets brighter. "Entirely fair assessment. Cool, measured, observant... who do you admire, Tim? Who makes you believe in a better world?"

"I." Tim blinks—but he doesn't look at Jason for assurance.

It's a small thing, really, but it makes Jason feel both proud and a little afraid, and it's very hard not to rest a hand on Tim's shoulder. *Very* fucking hard, but he can do it. Tim's had time with Bruce, time enough to get something like his bearings, maybe, and... Jason wants to see it.

"I feel as though I *should* say you, if only because Batman wouldn't be real without you, but..."

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

Tim smiles. "I think I like you too much to admire you, Bruce. And yes, that does do more against it than the fears and doubts I have about—and around—you. I'm not sure it's possible to admire a... friend."

Bruce curls his fingers around the arms of his chair and generally looks about three nanoseconds from *jumping* Tim, but restraining the hell out of himself. He nods. "I disagree... but I understand," he says, and stands, moving easily into the small space Jason has left him—

The kiss is brief and hard—

"Jay... and we were discussing my sexuality."

Jason touches his tongue to his upper lip. "Yeah. We were," he says, and grabs Bruce by the waistbands of his shorts and tights.

Bruce—

Bruce *inhales* Jason, narrowing his eyes and licking his own lips. "I was *emotionally* attracted to Dick from the very beginning, of course. I could see in his eyes what I'd felt behind my own, but even that was a very small thing compared to what I had seen before his parents were murdered. A few glimpses of joy, of life, of humor and pleasure. The sound of his laughter at a moment when much of the audience had randomly hushed, bright and beautiful. I knew that I wanted to hear it again, and again."

"Oh," Tim says. "*Yes*."

Bruce steps back and strips down the rest of the way until he's standing naked before them, some *extremely* gay—and twisted—man's Galatea, maybe, marked by self-sacrifice and *will*... and it's possible that he's always going to be *just* this gone for the man.

Jason laughs a little and shakes his head. "Okay, we all agree that a happy Dick is a *good* Dick—"

"We could... ah..." Tim trails off, clenching and unclenching his fists in that way that always tends to mean that he really *wants* to be naked and isn't at all sure about where that impulse *came* from—

"'We could,' Tim...?"

Tim swallows again. "You know, you—you pick interesting and terrible times to *test* me, Bruce."

Bruce smiles again and reaches out to stroke the bridge of Tim's nose, making Tim go cross-eyed briefly before he blushes and frowns at himself— "You might consider it a matter of being interested in what you will say, Tim. And how you'll choose to say it."

"I... fine," Tim says, and stands up straighter, sticking his chin out a little. "I was just going to suggest that the three of us go upstairs," and he actually manages to sound a little affronted, which—

"That's kind of adorable, baby bro," Jason says, and smiles when Tim glares at him. "I mean it, I'm tempted to ruffle your hair."

"You're not—helping. Or encouraging. Or *anything* remotely positive—oh."

And that oh was for Bruce picking Tim *up*, pulling him in so that Tim spreads his legs around Bruce's waist—

"Tim."

"Bruce."

"I think that was an excellent idea, and I appreciate your offering it."

"I—really, Bruce, *someone* was going to say it eventually—"

"You said it *first*, however, and you will not argue me away from being... charmed," Bruce says, supporting Tim with one hand and stroking his arm with the other—

Until Tim lifts both arms around Bruce's neck and gets another smile for it.

"You're training me. For *this*."

Bruce tilts his head to the side. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'm merely offering—hopeful—suggestions."

Jason snorts. "No, he's totally training you. Remember: he's old, and he has a *lot* of kinks."

"Being held is a kink?"

"By a beautiful young man who rarely initiates physical contact...?" Bruce's eyes are fucking *laser*-focused on Tim's own— "Yes," he says, and turns to Jason—

Jason laughs and nods, and Bruce begins walking toward the stairs, naked as hell and apparently *entirely* willing to walk through the manor that way—

"Wait, wait, you should put on a robe—"

"And risk letting you free again? I think not."

"I'm not—free. *What*?"

Jason jogs up close enough to pat Tim's ass. "See, you should get him to tell you about all the times I tried—and *failed*—to convince him to let us keep it in the damned *bedroom*."

"If I recall correctly, Jay, you were the one who suggested we indulge ourselves at the opera—"

"I was *bored*."

"And the Knights' season opener—"

"You took me to a goddamned *ball* game and refused to let me eat hot dogs—"

"And—"

"I get the point," Tim says, and settles himself against Bruce a little more—

Bruce hums and kisses Tim's throat while he walks, clearly making a little *event* out of it—

"Mm—ah. We were talking about Dick. And you, Bruce—"

Bruce pulls back with an extremely obscene noise. "So we were. What do you want to know?"

And for *some* reason—God only knows why, really—Jason can *feel* the unspoken 'son.' Possibly '*my* son.'

Tim frowns—yeah, he can hear it, too. He pulls back to search Bruce's face, and it would probably be a lot better for Bruce if he kept up the smiling, happy-perv thing, but Jason has to admit that he can understand why Bruce *can't* for this.

God, *Bruce*—

"What is it, Bruce? What... you're not telling me something."

"You only have to—"

"*No*," Tim says, pushing back even further and clearly getting ready to jump down. "You can't—you can't hide things from me. I don't like it. I can't—take it—"

"Tim—"

"No, Jason, you said there was something, and there *is* something—"

"I want you," Bruce says, "to be mine in as many ways as possible, Tim. I want you never to leave, never to be *able* to leave—"

"This isn't my *home*—"

"It is, for as long as you wish it to be so—and forever beyond that," and Bruce pauses halfway up the stairs to pull Tim against him by main force. "It's only that, I promise you."

Tim frowns a little harder— "That—wasn't a lie."

It just wasn't the whole truth, and how long has Bruce been able to lie this *effectively* to people he loves? He wouldn't have had to try that hard with Dick back in the day, but what about *him*?

"No, it wasn't," and Bruce kisses the line of Tim's jaw, his cheek, his ear— "There's a certain intimacy to this touch I've never fully been able to comprehend within myself. I've never had a schoolyard friend to whisper to."

"Ah—neither have I," Tim says, licking his lips and closing his eyes. "Bruce—"

"You've let me tell you so much, Tim. You've offered yourself and your remarkable ability to *listen*—"

"You shouldn't—I don't. Compliments for things like that—"

"Are entirely apropos. You hear everything I tell you and many of the things I don't..."

And that pause was for *him*, but Bruce and the truth are... what? Would it be better or worse if he knew that Bruce was still capable of hiding at least some of the truth from him? Knowing he never *wants* to isn't the same thing, and—

Tim is looking at him curiously and a little worriedly. Bruce is tensing up just a little, and—

And maybe he wouldn't be so fucked up about this *now* if he hadn't gotten used to there being no lies between any of them just lately. Fuck, what a thing *to* get used to—

"Jay—"

"I think you should tell him, Bruce. I—he probably doesn't want to *hear* it right now—and maybe not ever—"

"Wait, there *is* more? I don't—what's going on?"

Jason pushes a hand back through his hair. "What's going on, Tim, is that I'm being incredibly fucking *selfish*, because *I* can't deal with having a secret from you."

Tim blinks a few times and bites his lip. "Jay."

"I am... to say that I am 'willing to be led' is something of an egregious understatement. For such things as this, I've never known whether I could trust my own instincts, as my motivations remain murky and strange to myself," Bruce says, and leans in to kiss the wings of Tim's collarbone, once and once.

Fuck, he has a big fucking mouth. "It's something you don't want to hear, Tim. But it's not... it's not a bad thing," Jason says, and thinks about all the times he'd bumped up against the knowledge that he was technically fucking his father and moved *right* away from it again—because it was never technical to *Bruce*, at all.

"But... it *bothers* you that I don't know, Jay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it does. It—heh. It's not that it brings back bad memories. It *could*, but it doesn't," Jason says, and reaches up to cover Tim's hands on Bruce's shoulders. "It's more that I'm hurting a little... I never want to lie to you. The same way Bruce never wants to lie to... any of us."

"Do you want to lie to *me*, Jay?" And Bruce doesn't turn to look at him, but that's only because he knows the answer. What the answer *used* to be.

"I always wanted to lie to you, B. Just to have something that was *mine* after spending all that time surrounded by you and everything you paid for. I *used* to have to work to feel that *I* wasn't something you paid for—I had to get away from you—"

"I'm so sorry, Jay. Jason. I—"

"No, B, no, I—" Jason laughs a little breathlessly and moves up the steps until he can turn and meet Bruce's eyes. "Like I said—I'm not fifteen, anymore."

Bruce searches him for a long moment and then nods, cautious and hopeful and a lot of other things at once.

"In any event—I don't want to lie *anymore*," Jason says, and rests his hand on the back of Tim's neck. "But it's your call, Tim—"

"Tell me," Tim says, and looks back and forth between them. "Whatever it is—it's better to know. I can't actually decide whether it would be worse to be surprised by it sometime in the future or to just *never* know—tell me."

Bruce nods. "I want to adopt you. I want you to be my son."

Silence, and lots *of* it, and Bruce is Bruce—he doesn't look down or away until *Tim* turns away, at which point Jason feels like a diseased asshole. He could've kept this from Tim.

He could've *protected* Tim from this. Hell, he'd been *doing* it—

"You." Tim's laugh is *deeply* cracked— "You might've warned me that I wouldn't want to hear it while in this *position*—no, Bruce, you don't have to set me down. But I refuse to be taken on... on a *piggyback* ride, oh my *God*, that's—that's *twisted*," Tim says, and turns to look at Bruce. "That's really—and you came to this conclusion *after* we were already sleeping together?"

"It was more... diffuse before then," Bruce says. "Before, I only wanted to be closer to you. I had no specifics in mind."

Tim nods, jaw tight but otherwise nowhere near as tense as Jason would've predicted.

Just— "It's nothing you have to do, Tim. It's all about what *you* want."

Tim nods again, not taking his eyes off Bruce. "You know, I feel I *should* know how my mother would respond to that suggestion, but I honestly have no idea."

Jason winces hard—

"Tim..."

"It's all right. It's—it's all right. And now I know, and as near as I can tell, the only thing I'm sure of at this moment is that I *really* don't think you should ever make love to a woman without two condoms and a vasectomy, Bruce."

"The thought had occurred."

"Well—good," and Tim cups Bruce's face, brushing at Bruce's short hair with his fingertips. "Jay warned me about you, Bruce."

"Yes."

"He—he taught me to fear you *while* teaching me that what I already felt for you was desire and *romantic* love—and nothing as clean and easy as I'd previously thought."

And Bruce is searching Tim, now, and Jason *wants* to help him, but he has no fucking clue *how*.

Just as he has no fucking clue how he'd managed to go so long *without* wanting to help Bruce, be with him, *live* in this crazy that has love all over it, all through it—

"Bruce..." Tim shakes his head. "Do you want me to call you—"

"No," Bruce says, firm and sure— "Unless. Unless you want to. Unless you." Bruce swallows.

"Unless I feel it for someone who's taught me, comforted me, guided me... loved me."

"Tim..." And there's something terrible about the *hope* in Bruce's voice, about the way it's all over Bruce's face where Tim can *see* it—

"My—other—teacher..."

"Yes, Tim."

"I." Tim still isn't looking away, but he reaches back for him, and when Jason takes his hand— "Dad?"

Bruce grunts and shakes his head. "Tim."

"It seems. I should probably have these feelings—if these feelings are what I *think* they are—for *Jay*, who did an excellent job of making himself my whole world, and, for quite a bit of that time, held himself in a position of unassailable authority. You came *later*, and have, if anything, treated me as an equal—"

"You *are*," Bruce says, and there's anger in his voice, but also so much need that Jason can feel himself getting harder, *needier*—

"I was surprised by your... revelation. It had never even occurred to me, which makes me feel both embarrassed and a bit *stupid*, but there you are," Tim says, and strokes Bruce's face, covers Bruce's mouth with his hand. "I. I'm very aroused. I mean, you can *feel* that, but—"

Bruce nods.

Tim sighs, and it's a shaky enough sound that Jason wants to *kick* himself for the twitch it puts in his dick, but he settles for squeezing Tim's hand.

"I'd like to think that I'm better than this, that I can rise above concerns like size and *age*..."

"No one is, baby bro. Not even Bruce, no matter what he made you think."

"But—he never. Not with any of those *people*."

"He had *fear* on his side. Fear of losing sight of the Mission, fear of losing his *focus*, and maybe a little fear of love," Jason says, and squeezes again.

"Fear is a powerful thing," Bruce says, and starts to stroke Tim with the hand he's not using to support Tim's weight. "I never considered it back then, in those situations. I spent much of my time fighting the fear of *failure*. I... Tim."

"Yes. I—understand what you want? I don't know if I can... I don't know if I can."

Bruce nods. "There are other things available to us. All of us."

That wet sound—Tim is licking his lips, and he squeezes Jason's hand again— "I'm frightened," he says, and laughs again. "I think... I think I finally understand *why* Jason was so focused on making me learn to fear you. You're so. There's so *much*."

"Then..." Bruce splays his free hand against Tim's back and pulls. "Only take what you want."

"And leave the rest unexamined? *Waiting*? I don't think I can do that, Bruce."

"Then—"

Tim kisses Bruce, humming into it and tightening his grip with his thighs. He's still holding Jason's hand, but... he really doesn't have to be. Jason lets go and Tim immediately brings his hand to Bruce's face, stroking and squeezing, touching, *knowing*.

It's incredible to watch, and it's—what he wanted? Batman and Robin—except that this is *Bruce* and *Tim*, and that's a different thing altogether. The deeply fucked up and beautiful man he's been in love with for longer than he likes to think about, the deeply fucked up and beautiful boy who—ditto.

On a smaller scale, sure, but does it really *feel* that way when held against all the changes in who *Jason* is as a person? Can it?

All he knows is that it makes him feel *right* to see it, but not in any of the ways he could've predicted. He's not—

He's not ready to *leave* them like this, even though he knows, now, that they can make it work as a partnership and everything else.

He's not ready, and maybe that's enough of an excuse to cover the hand Bruce has on Tim's back with his own, to cup Tim's ass *with* Bruce—

Tim moans and pulls out of the kiss, not bothering to cut the moan off first— "Mm. Upstairs. Before I—think more."

"Tim. My relationship with Jay has taught me that, perhaps, it would be better not to allow—"

"I'm not Jay. And I'm perfectly capable of deciding when and whether I regret."

And when and whether you *forgive*, baby bro...? No, he's not going to ask that—mainly because Tim would view it as an insult and a distraction, and be right to do so. Instead, he leans in and kisses the back of Tim's neck, wet and slow and serious—

Tim thrusts against Bruce—

Bruce *grunts*, and yeah, they're headed upstairs again. Jason lets Bruce take the lead so he can watch Bruce continue to make love to Tim *while* walking, watch him *give* the way he always wants to, take the way he always *needs* to—

And Tim isn't thrusting as much as he's *grinding*, working his body the way Jason loves, the way he'd picked up from *Dick*, who Jason sincerely hopes is having a fabulous time getting wound up in Kory's legs, arms, and hair. He deserves it, and everything else, too.

And then he's not thinking about Dick, anymore, because Bruce is stripping Tim in that way that manages to be both scary and a little *reverent*, because Tim is just *going* with it in ways Jason hadn't been able to manage when he was Tim's age—

Tim's more prepared for this than any of them *ever* were, and a *part* of that is due to him, which makes the warm and growing thing inside him pulse, seize, *want*—

And it's his turn to pick Tim up, clutch that body against his own and kiss hard, deep, tasting hints of Bruce in Tim's mouth and—

Bruce tugs Jason's shorts and boxer-briefs down, stroking him, loving him, loving *them*—

His sons.

His *younger* sons, and Dick is back in Jason's mind, but only because he knows Bruce wants him there, too, wants *all* of them at once—every day and every night—

Oh, yeah, he has a *special* family. Jason laughs and tosses Tim down onto Bruce's bed, watching him recover and spread his legs just as wide as he can, watching him watch *them* and pant, stroke his way down his chest—

And then he can't see, because Bruce is pulling his shirt over his head, stroking Jason's chest and whispering—

"Beautiful. Always so beautiful—"

"I agree," Tim says, and when Jason can see again he's scooting further up the bed, resting on one elbow and wrapping his hand around his dick. "I remember the first photos of him I took—"

"I would very much like to see them," Bruce says, and pulls Jason back against his body, leans in and mouths the place where Jason's neck meets his shoulder—

Jason laughs. "Maybe I'll bring 'em in one day. You can decide which ones B gets to see."

"Ooh. Autonomy. You spoil me, Jay."

"Heh. Don't let it go to your *head*, baby bro."

Tim *pinches* the head of his dick. "I'll try to avoid it. But... I was rather stunned at my reaction to the pictures. The *immediacy* of the arousal was... shocking. Disturbing."

Bruce hums and *bites* Jason, and now he's stroking Jason's hip and thigh with his other hand—he pulls back. "I was too shocked to *be* disturbed. Too... affected."

"I *was*, in fact, a damned pretty little boy," and Jason knows his smile is just a little *wet*. "You had an advantage over poor Bruce, Tim."

"Oh, yes...?"

"You couldn't see my big, pretty eyes. Long, long lashes, a blue... now *what* did that one john say? Oh yeah—'eyes so blue I wanted to dive right in and swim to your soul.'"

Tim snorts. "I hope you charged him extra."

"Bled him dry," Jason says, and drags the hand Bruce has on his abdomen down to his dick—and Bruce starts stroking immediately, fast and *serious*. Jason licks his lips. "Not hard enough for ya, B?"

"Never," and Bruce licks the back of Jason's neck, bites his earlobe—

"Jay should always be very, very hard," and Tim starts stroking himself with the same rhythm Bruce is using—

"Both of you," Bruce says, breathy and low. "I. I never know whether I would prefer to watch or to *touch*."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Even when you are, in fact, touching?"

"Even then," Bruce says, letting go and backing away. "Please."

And Jason would have to take another few blows to the head with a crowbar not to know what Bruce wants. He crawls onto the bed and pushes Tim's thighs further apart, gripping them hard enough that his fingers sink in against Tim's flesh—

"So beautiful—"

Tim moans and stares into Jason's eyes, starts stroking himself a little faster—

"Stop that."

Tim grunts and tenses— "Why should I?"

"Because I *said* so," Jason says, and bites Tim's wrist *nice* and hard—

"God, I—" Tim pulls his hand away from himself and rests on *both* elbows. "What else do you want?"

"Everything I can have, and just a little more. You know that," and he sucks the head of Tim's dick, licks the slit and tries stabbing it a little—

Tim moans and arches for more, trying to get deeper—

Jason wraps his hand around Tim's dick and holds on tight, sucking harder and humming—

And the sounds get high and frightening, fucking *sexy* just that fast, just that *good*—

"Bruce. Bruce. You should—what *do* you want to see?"

"Everything. I recognize that that's an unhelpful answer, but it's all I have to give," Bruce says, and the mattress dips with his weight, but there's no touch—there. Bruce is beside them, looming a little—

"Oh. The way you *look*, Bruce. I—I thought, perhaps, I'd grown accustomed to. And now you're looking only at me—" Tim groans, growls a little, and there's a hard little hand in Jason's hair, winding its way in, tugging and tangling—*pulling*. "I don't. I don't want to come, yet—"

Jason pulls off and licks his way up Tim's abdomen and chest, detouring to suck on his pretty scars, lick and bite *around* them—

"*Jay*—"

Bite *harder*—

"Oh. Oh, so—Bruce, *kiss* me—" And there's a muffled sound that's almost like a *yelp*, and Jason really, really has to see that—

God, Bruce's big fucking hand on Tim's face as he very clearly and obviously *fucks* Tim's mouth with his tongue, over and over as Tim's lashes flutter, as he reaches to cup Bruce's shoulder, squeeze hard enough that his knuckles show white—

*Fuck* yes, and the best way to respond—

The *only* way to respond is to push Tim's legs up and lick his cleft, tasting sweat and musk, sex and maybe all the shadows around them—especially the ones Bruce causes by *existing*.

Stabbing into that sweet little hole gets him a muffled *shout*, and then one that isn't muffled, at all—

"God. So—it's *different*—"

"What is, Tim?"

"I—I. All the acts are the same, but when Jay does it. When he touches. Tastes—I."

"There's something to be said for the pleasures inherent to one's first love, but I don't think that would explain things adequately for you...?"

"Hn—I. God, *Jay*, you feel so good, and I—Bruce. It's. There's always a different *feeling*, and I don't *know* why."

Bruce hums, and there's the sound of skin on skin—probably Bruce is taking the opportunity to just stroke Tim a little, feel all that new muscle, all that skin which has barely been marked by anything but Jason's own knife—

"Jay almost certainly has a different... focus than I do. Or perhaps a different manner *of* focusing...?"

Tim pants, moans for the way Jason's giving it to him with his tongue, or—

That's definitely Bruce's hand in his hair, which means he's teasing the hell out of Tim by *not* touching Tim's dick... he's a bad, bad man, and yeah, he's smiling against Tim's ass, now, humming a little as he kisses, as he *fucks*—

"He always—wants me to be crazy. I think? Um—it's difficult to. Focus."

"Your pleasure is so very direct when he touches you. I *could* describe it as being uncomplicated, but that's not it, at all," Bruce says, and lets go of Jason's hair. "Would you say that you feel that every moment with Jay is something to be—"

"Savored. Experienced. *Lived*. God, I only want—I can't help—*please*, Jay—"

"I know what you want," Jason says, and kisses Tim's hole hard, nuzzles a little. "Tell me why I should give it to you. Tell *Bruce*—"

"I *need* you, so much, I—you shouldn't *tease* me if you don't want me to be honest, Jay. Don't *leave*—"

And yeah, he knew that was coming, and he'd still done it, still said those things—

Jason shakes his head at himself—

"God, *please*—"

He pulls back and cups Tim's hips, rearing up over him—

Tim wraps his legs around Jason's waist and *pulls*, hard enough that it's *deeply* necessary to let himself fall, brace himself on the pillows and stare down at the boy he helped to shape, the boy who'll always be a partner to Bruce, a Robin to make the streets fucking *shake*, the boy who drives him right out of his head and—

"*Fuck*, B—"

"It seemed... timely," Bruce says, and continues stroking slick all over Jason's dick, working him and making him *ready*—

And Tim is staring up at Jason, searching him with the same hurt in his eyes, the one that *only* belongs to him—and then he turns to look at Bruce, who can maybe *feel* it, because he lets go of Jason and cups Tim's shoulders, pressing him back down against the bed—

"It's all right, Tim. You'll never truly lose him—"

"Is *that* what you told yourself when you held his *body*, Bruce?"

Bruce's smile is sharp and fucking *appreciative*—"No. But it's something I understand now. We can never *imprison* the ones we love, never try to hold them to ourselves when they need to leave us—"

"I don't want—he *said* he wanted to stay."

And the silence for that is huge, deep—fucking *immense*. Bruce is squeezing Tim's shoulders hard enough to make Tim wince, a little, and his eyes are focused on nothing and no one in this room.

"B—"

"Jay," Bruce says, voice low and dark—

"I said it. And I meant it. I just don't—I can't—I don't think I *can*—"

"You can do anything you wish, Jay," and Bruce still isn't looking at anything but the inside of his own mind. "I will not—I know, now, that there's nothing I can do—or should do—if you truly need to be apart from the family. From—from *me*—"

"God, Bruce, let's not—we don't have to *go* there—"

"I *won't* apologize for taking us there," Tim says— "Though I would like it if you didn't crush my bones to powder, Bruce."

Bruce lets go—and the move that ends with Bruce cupping his jaw with one hand and gripping his hair with the other—

"Hey, Batman. Nice to see you," Jason says, and raises his eyebrows.

"*Jay*."

And that was a plea, a demand, an order, *and* a whole separate plea on top of the rest. God, *Bruce*—"Yeah. I *said* it. Fuck, look at where I *am*—"

"Tell me what I must do, Jay. What I must *say*—"

"It's not *like* that—"

"Then *what*?" Bruce grips him a little harder—and then his forehead is pressed against Jason's own, his hands are—

His hands are perfect, wonderful, and there's *more* perfect and wonderful for him right there on the bed, waiting— "I don't know."

"Jay—"

"I don't *know*, all right? It's something I have to do, something I have to *decide*—" Assuming there will ever *be* another anomaly.

Assuming he'll be there to know about it, as opposed to here, maybe buried deep in Tim where he belongs—

Where he needs to *be*—

And the kiss is bruisingly hard, so close to how it used to be when Bruce would try—and *fail*—to keep himself away, hold himself *back*—

It's a dozen memories at once. It's the back of his head bouncing against the mats as Bruce takes him down, it's the feel of Bruce's hands gripping his thighs as Bruce sucked and fucking *bit*—

It's Bruce begging, wordless and sharp, low—

Jason sucks Bruce's tongue and pulls Bruce's hands away from him, and Bruce immediately pushes his fingers between Jason's own and grips him *that* way—

"I could say something, at this juncture, about your failure to demonstrate calm and control in the face of the *fact* of Jay, Bruce," Tim says, and he sounds so damned *cool*—

Jason laughs into the kiss—

And Bruce's tackle nearly takes them off the bed, but Tim's right there when Jason flings an arm out to steady himself, tugging just as hard as he can and—well, he can't *move* Jason with Bruce on him, but the grunting noises *convince* Bruce to kneel up—

And *yank* Jason back onto the bed—

"*That* brings back memories. *More* memories—"

"Jason," Bruce says, using that *extra* serious voice, that listen-to-me voice that actually doesn't have a damned thing to do with the Bat—

"I'm listening, B. You might even say you have my *utmost* attention," and Jason strokes Tim's wrist with his fingertips. "If not my *full* attention."

"You don't know what those other worlds would be like. You don't know—"

"Anything," Jason says. "I don't know *anything*. But I know—God, I had a damned *plan*, and it didn't involve getting stuck anywhere other than—" Jason laughs again. "It didn't involve getting stuck *anywhere*—no matter how good it was. Is. Let's not *do* this now. We've got the morning, we've got your great, big bed—and we've got a Tim who's being very patient—"

"And who can continue to *be* patient on this particular subject. Just to put that *out* there," Tim says, and *he* kneels up, moving to slip himself under Bruce's arm and hold on, palm moving restlessly over a scar Jason knows came from a machete wielded by a guy hopped up on PCP. Jason hadn't been good enough, then, to take out the guy's friends *quickly* enough—

He shakes his head. "You two... look really good together. I wish I'd gotten to see—"

"You can see *everything*, Jay—"

"At the very least," Bruce says, and the humor is back in his eyes as he runs two fingers down the center of Jason's chest, "you should feel free to watch the footage."

Jason snorts. "Bruce—you're a fucking pervert."

"Something you always seemed to appreciate, though in a similar way to how certain people appreciate wounds."

"Epicures recognize the place bitterness has in the human flavor palate, music critics see beauty in the atonal—I." Tim closes his mouth and frowns—

"Hey, no, baby bro, he wasn't—"

"He was mocking with love, yes, I get it. *None* of us know what's in those other worlds for you, but we know what's *here*—"

Jason sits up, scoots back a little and then gets up on his own knees, wanting at the closeness, the *power* that seems to be running through the three of them—

All that fucking *potential*—

"Please," Tim says, low and calm. "You know there's nothing I wouldn't do, nothing I wouldn't *give*."

He's already given his father, and his fucking *right* to string Jason up for that. He. "You probably think there's nothing worse than what you've already been through—"

"No, Jay, I don't. I know there are worse things, and my nightmares have offered several to me already. I... blood on my hands. You made sure I'd know the stink of it, and the *sound* flesh makes when it's torn—"

"Tim—"

"No, Bruce. This—this isn't yours, and can't ever *be* yours," Tim says, and curls his fingers in against Bruce's chest. "But it's Jason's. And It's mine. And all of my oaths, from now on, will be taken with that in mind—whether or not Jason stays."

Bruce frowns for that, but he doesn't even look a *little* surprised... yeah, there are reasons why he hasn't taken Tim's Oath—

"Am I what you wanted yet, Jay?"

Fuck. "You're a lot more than that. You *have* been a lot more than that for a long time now," Jason says, and wonders why he hadn't said it before. It seems so *obvious*—

Tim nods and touches his tongue to his upper lip. "I want that to be enough. I want to be... stronger, I suppose. But I'm not. I spent a great deal of time alone growing up, and I think it must have... damaged me in certain ways. You've given me a taste of what it's like to *not* be alone. You've given me a *family*. And while you can't take away the latter, you have to know that you can take away the former very easily. I—I know it's a terrible, manipulative thing to say, but I'm going to say it anyway: If you leave, I'll know that you never really loved me, at all—"

"Tim, *no*—"

"I'll know it with all of myself, and I'll always remember it. It will color all of my future relationships, in much the same way that my relationship with my parents will. It is, of course, not your responsibility in any way to guide me through the world—and you've given me far more than anyone else ever could—but, ultimately, that doesn't change anything. And that's all I'm going to say on the matter. I won't ask you to stay anymore. I won't beg, or plead, or cry—where you can hear or see me, anyway. I'm done," Tim says, and shrugs away from Bruce again, stepping off the bed—

But he stops when Jason puts a hand on his shoulder. Stops, shudders, and probably hates himself for it, but— "Do you *need* to go right now, Tim?"

Tim laughs, quiet and a little ugly. "I'm frankly not sure, Jay. And I wonder if this is what you feel every time you look at your little anomaly-sensors."

Jason swallows, feeling Bruce's gaze on him, feeling the *tension* in Tim's shoulder—

Feeling so fucking *much*—

"Jay. What do *you* need right now?"

Jason blows out a breath. "My fucked up, twisted, dangerous, brilliant, and really kind of scary boy. *My* boy."

"I love you," Tim says, and reaches up to cover Jason's hand with his own. "You never... I mean, you *knew* how fucked up it would be to start a sexual relationship with me, and maybe you blamed it on adrenaline and uncontrollable—unbelievable, really—lust, at first, but you still did it, and kept doing it. You scarred me and you hurt me and you tasted my blood, and I never stopped being a *boy* to you."

"A feat I never managed," Bruce says, as quietly as everything else.

"Yeah, well, I *own* my perversions, *kid*. Come here and let me make you come for me. Let me make you scream until your voice cracks—"

Bruce's dick twitches, and Jason grins and wraps his free hand around it—

"Better yet, let me see the way Bruce touches you. The way he *works* you—"

"Jay. I—I want—"

"Both? Neither? Can you still feel my tongue in you?"

"I—fuck," Tim says, turning around and coming back to the bed—

Jason grins and licks his lips, and—

He's never going to forget *this* moment:

The frown warring with a kind of blank *hunger* on Tim's face as he moves between Bruce and Jason, as he straddles Jason's thighs and parts his lips, staring into Jason's eyes *and* into the space behind his own, as he wraps his arms around Jason's neck and tilts his head back, baring his throat—

"Mine," Jason says, shocked that it comes out more conversational than the desperate he's starting to feel in his fucking bones—

"Yours," Tim agrees, and presses as close as he can, rubbing against Jason's slick dick, grinding and *pushing*—"But I think... I think you should watch Bruce fuck me."

"Oh, I think you're absolutely right, and I—" Okay, focus on a little more than the lust, a little more than the images crowding and fucking flooding his brain— "It doesn't—it won't make a difference. It won't make me think you're any better off without me or—any of that."

Tim nods seriously and flashes him a smile, bright and small. "How much did it turn *you* on when I called him... that word I have no intention of teasing him with—"

"Thank you," Bruce says, and kisses the top of Tim's head—

Tim takes one hand from around Jason's neck and reaches back to do... something. Squeeze, maybe? Stroke? Hard to say when he has his own hands on Tim's obliques, now...

"Uh... at the time? I was too busy thinking about what an ass I was to make you deal with it to really *think* about it."

Tim nods slowly. "The thing is—it would be incredibly easy to let myself fall into that mindset. Into that way of *being*. I can imagine all kinds of things, but I don't *have* to imagine anything—we've already spent time working on the vehicles together. We've discussed the—heh—family business. He's held me while I cried. He's held me while I fell asleep. We've shared meals together without anything resembling trauma or stress, I—I can't stress *enough* how much that means."

Jason nods, and doesn't say a damned *word* about the meals he's watched at the Drake home—

"And I see that I don't have to. You know. You *both* know, and somehow it's all right that you do. I..." Tim grinds against Jason again and closes his eyes—

And Bruce is right there to cup Tim's throat and *squeeze*—

"*Jesus*, that's hot—"

Tim nods and grinds more, *harder*—

And Bruce is staring into him, willing him to see, or maybe to know... something.

Jason shakes his head. "What is it, B?"

"You've given me a gift. You are, undoubtedly, tempted to say that Tim would've been one of us without your influence, but you know it wouldn't be like this, Jay."

"I—yeah. I do."

Bruce nods and starts squeezing Tim's throat rhythmically. "The Bruce and Tim in your home universe were not romantically involved."

"No, but... ah. You *had* adopted him. Not long after... Captain Boomerang killed Tim's father."

Bruce blinks and releases Tim's throat—

Tim brings Bruce's hand *back*—"Not this. Not now. We can discuss the matter later. I—it happened years from now, Jay?"

Jason cups Tim's hips and squeezes. "Just before you turned seventeen."

"Four years... and a large amount of possibility between then and now," Tim says, and reaches up to cup Bruce's face— "And a different parent."

Jason debates telling Tim that the difference won't matter, but—hell, Janet Drake could get herself hammered and take a fall down the stairs between then and now. She could get married. She could spend her time traveling the world, leaving Tim behind—

"Right now... I don't care," Tim says, and pushes his hand into Bruce's short hair. "I think I might be... I don't know, and I don't want to analyze it, beyond considering the idea of Bruce being my father and *not* fucking me on a nightly basis."

"I will never pressure you—"

"In *any* way, yes, I know, Bruce. Closer, please?" And Tim groans when Bruce presses him against Jason, and—

"God, I think I can feel *your* heat, B—"

"I love you both. Let me—"

And the kiss he gives Tim is hungry, *hot*, and a little mind-blowing when he starts squeezing Tim's throat again, cutting off moans that get higher and higher, more desperate as Tim runs out of air—

As Tim thrusts against Jason again and again—

Bruce pulls back— "Beautiful boy. You know so much about me. There's so much I've been able to say—and so much I've never *had* to say."

"Bruce. Oh—God, I want. I."

"Tell me," Bruce says, and for a long moment Jason might as well not be here at all. It's in the way they're looking at each other, the way—

There's something between them that had clearly grown while Jason had kept himself away, something deep and a little terrifying—judging by how wide Tim's eyes are and the shudder that goes through him—

Through all of them.

"I want to say it," Tim says, and swallows. "I want. I'll mean it, but I want to say it, anyway, and I don't know. I. What happens if I change my mind?"

"You'll still have said it. And I will have heard it, and had what I wanted for a moment I would never forget," and Bruce moves his hand from Tim's throat to stroke his mouth, to press against Tim's lower lip with his thumb—

"God. God. Both of you, right here, and I. I never know how I'll *take* this. It always seems like *this* time I'll fall apart entirely and never be any good to anyone, again—"

"You *are* good," Jason says, and shifting his grip to Tim's ass means brushing against Bruce with the backs of his hands, brings a contact that *is* complicated, warm and more than a little beautiful—

"Take what you want, Tim—"

"Say it. Say—the word. Let me hear—"

"Son," Bruce says, low and almost *hard* as he pushes his thumb into Tim's mouth, as Tim shudders all over, closes his eyes, and *sucks*.

Jesus, *yes*, and Jason bites the inside of his lip to keep from saying anything, from *interrupting*—

"Anyone would be proud to call you their own, Tim. Anyone who took the time to know you would *need* you," and Bruce starts *fucking* Tim's mouth with his thumb—

Jason gives Tim's ass a squeeze—

Tim opens his eyes, but they're dazed, unfocused—

"My son. I will make love to you in any way you wish. I will give you all the pleasure you wish to take—"

Tim groans and squeezes his eyes shut again, shakes his head—

"You mustn't—please don't deny me this, Tim. *Son*."

Another shudder, and Tim sucks Bruce's finger—it looks like he's sucking as hard as he *can*, and Jason knows that means Tim wants to protest as much as he wants more, so—

It feels so good to start fucking against Tim, to just rub his slicked-up dick all over Tim's own, and his abdomen—

To make Tim moan around Bruce's thumb—

And to watch Tim reach for it as Bruce starts to pull it out, slowly and fucking inexorably until Tim is panting and whimpering a little. He's flushed, sweating—

"Take him, B. I can't—I need to *see*."

Bruce nods and sucks his wet thumb before bringing it back to Tim's mouth for Tim's sharp little pink tongue, for those swelling lips—

Jason starts fucking a little faster, making an *effort* to shove Tim back against Bruce with every thrust, to get those little grunting noises—

"Say... say yes to me, Tim," Bruce says, and presses his short thumbnail against Tim's lower lip— "Tell me you want—"

"Want. I want you, Bruce, I want—please fuck me. Please... Dad—*oh*—"

And judging by the feel, *Bruce* had just thrust against Tim's ass—

"Again, Tim—"

"Dad, *please*, I'll do—not anything, not. That's for *Jay*—"

And that—Jason spreads Tim's cheeks and Tim whimpers for him, for both of them, because Bruce *must* be fucking Tim's cleft, feeling sweat and maybe a little of Jason's spit—

And then Bruce is moving Tim's arms until they're tight around Jason's neck, moving *Tim* until Tim's head is on Jason's shoulder—

"Please. Please—"

"The answer is always yes, Tim," Bruce says, and then the little bottle of lubricant is in his hands—

And then Tim is making noises with a whole lot of o's, rubbing his face against Jason's shoulder and managing to match his rhythm to Jason's own—

But it would be Bruce making the rhythm work, wouldn't it? Just—of *course* he's capable of prepping Tim *and* continuing the sex just the way Jason wants it—

Needs it—

Jason kisses Tim's forehead. "You're all right, baby bro..."

Tim laughs and bites him. "I could question... that. I could. Oh. Oh, please, *please*—"

"B?"

"I'm pushing as deep as I can, feeling..." Bruce sighs. "Stop holding him open, Jay. I need you to—I need Tim to be *held* right now—"

"God, fuck, yeah, I understand," Jason says, and wraps his arms around Tim—

Tim shudders again and *clings* the way he almost never does, feeling just as young as he is, just as incredible—

*Fuck*, yes— "You're so hot like this, Tim. So perfect —"

And that was a whimper—and Tim starts working himself faster between them, urging them on—

"Careful, you don't want to come, yet—"

Tim grunts and bites Jason again, holding on with his sharp little teeth—

"That's right. That's just right. You feel how hard I am for you? How much I need you?"

Animal noise, muffled and *wet*, and Tim pulls back to blink and stare at him, through him—

Jason grins and squeezes him tighter. "You know it's good, don't you?"

Tim licks his lips and nods—and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Another finger, B?"

"Yes. I'm always tempted to do this as slowly as he'll allow—"

Jason snorts. "See, this is where you *fail* to get in touch with your inner teenager, Bruce. Too slow is too much of a *tease*."

"I'm not unaware of that, Jay. It's only that every reaction is precious, every moment vital and beautiful..."

Tim moans and *keeps* moaning, and Jason would bet that Bruce is making those two fingers feel like three, stretching Tim as open as he can, and—God, yes—

Jason licks Tim's face, tasting salt and wanting *more*—"Choke him again—"

"Wait—" Tim pants and shakes his head. "I'll. I'll come."

Mm, there's a point. "What if he just sucks your throat a little, Tim?"

"I—all right—" And Tim kneels up to give Bruce a better angle, stroking Jason's neck and shoulders restlessly and making those 'oh' sounds again, high and *sweet*.

Jason can feel himself leaking more pre-come, feel himself getting harder and fucking *needier*—"*Faster*, B—"

And Tim's moan becomes a grunt—

Another—

And then it's rhythmic, suggestive almost to the point of *pain*, because Bruce is fucking Tim with his fingers, he's—

"God, you're fucking my *boy*—"

"My *son*," Bruce says—

And Tim starts smacking Jason with his palms, shaking his head and working himself between them, back and forth and back again—

Jason licks his lips. "One of my hottest memories is of finding Bruce reading the newspaper in the study and just yanking down my pants and underwear—"

"You'd prepared yourself before coming to me. You were. When I saw the shine of lubricant on your cheek, I lost myself."

Jason strokes up to the back of Tim's head and cups him there, holding him against himself— "Yeah, well, you were due to *join* that particular club. I could barely *remember* preparing myself—there were just flashes of sensation and *need* right up until I sat on your lap—"

"I nearly called you 'son.'"

Jason laughs and works his free hand between his body and Tim's own so he can pinch and twist Tim's nipples. "*Better* that you didn't."

"You *rode* me, Jay—"

"And it wasn't enough—"

Tim groans and starts *pumping* his hips—

"Easy, baby bro—"

"Can't. I—I can see—I can *feel*—"

"Then I will not make any of us wait any longer," Bruce says—

Tim gasps—

Tim *shouts*, and Bruce is pulling him into his lap, pulling him down onto his dick inch by fucking *inch*, and Jason works his hand between them just so he can feel it. Bruce hard as fucking rock, Tim stretched as far open as he *can* be—

"*Ride* him, Tim."

Tim nods almost frantically and braces his hands on Jason's shoulders, eyes closed but tracking fast behind the lids as he does it, lifting himself up and *shoving* himself back down—

Bruce grunts like an animal and wraps his hand around Tim's throat again, getting a cry that gets choked off *slowly*—

And Tim is still fucking against Jason, still moving in *just* the right way to make Jason's dick feel fucking *appreciative*, and the only possible response to that is to push closer, *crush* Tim between them until all the motions are short and sharp, just to the sweet side of awkward—

Bruce eases his grip on Tim's throat—

"Nnh—I—please, oh—oh, God, I need more—"

"It's—" Jason shakes his head and bites his lip. "It's never enough like that, Tim, I know—"

"*Please*—"

"Just—" Jason *licks* his lips and kisses Tim, swallowing Tim's cries until there aren't any, sucking Tim's tongue until he starts fucking Jason with it—he pulls back. "Just a little longer. Give us what you *got*, baby bro—"

"*Nnh*—I. All right. I—" And Tim shakes his head again and starts riding Bruce faster, *rougher* both in terms of the rhythm and what Tim must be *feeling*—

"Yeah, like that. That's pretty much how I did it. It's—mm. It started to *hurt* more than it felt good—"

"Yes—*yes*—"

"But I kept going, Tim. Because I could *feel* Bruce losing it in me, feel the way he was watching me, *seeing* me. Knowing that I *wanted* it—"

Tim throws his head back and shouts—"*Please*—"

"And then I couldn't wait anymore," Bruce says, and moves his hands to Tim's hips. "I had to. Had to *help*—"

"D-Dad. Dad—"

"*Yes*," and Bruce starts moving Tim, lifting him and pulling him back down, lifting him against Jason and thrusting *up*—

"*Fuck* yeah, B—"

"I tell myself that it must be wrong to want this, that this, at least, should be something I can resist—"

"Please, *no*, Dad, please—oh, please don't stop, don't leave me, don't *leave* me—"

Bruce grunts and shudders, slowing *down*—"Tim—"

"I—I—" Tim sobs and *beats* at Jason's shoulders, struggling in Bruce's grip for *more*—

"Remember, B, don't tease—"

Bruce stares at him. "He's not—he isn't—"

"He's *here*," Jason says, and gives Tim a quick, hard kiss. "Even if it's not all the way."

Bruce frowns—

Tim sobs *louder*—

"My *son*," Bruce says, and starts giving it to Tim again, harder and faster—

Tim nods and clutches Jason, burying his face against Jason's neck and shoulder, licking and mouthing and muttering things that sound enough like words to make Jason shiver, because he *knows*—

Not what they are. But he knows what they *mean*, and maybe they're fucking Tim into a whole new *set* of issues, but they're also giving him what he *needs*—

"My beautiful boy. I. I won't leave you," and Bruce's voice is low and *harsh*, absolutely nothing like the voice Tim will never hear again, but Tim is still sobbing and gasping, still trying to keep up with Bruce's rhythm, with Jason's—

And Jason feels himself twitch for the feel of Tim sinking his teeth in against Jason's throat—

Bruce doesn't *stop*—

None of them are gonna fucking *stop*—

"It's. There's nothing wrong with your tears, Tim. Son. I want to taste them. I want to hold you to myself, keep you—"

"*Dad*—"

"*Mine*," Bruce says, and it's more of a growl than anything else, as harsh and vicious as the fuck currently making Jason want to be on his hands and knees, want Bruce's dick in his mouth, Tim's dick—

He *can* have that, but it would mean backing *away*, and that wouldn't be any good for Tim, not the way he's clutching with his arms and with his *teeth*—

"We're both right here," Jason says. "We've got you. We won't let *go*," and kissing Tim is the only possible way to cope with everything he feels, everything this *is*.

There's that rope around the base of his spine, and his dick is spitting pre-come with almost every fucking *thrust*—

And Tim tastes like the acid need that burns right through Jason every fucking day, and Bruce is fucking Tim against him fucking *relentlessly*, and this is what he wants, this is what it *means* to have Bruce—

To have this *boy*, and the realization that this won't end when Tim comes is somehow *profound*, deeper than everything else—possibly *including* Bruce's fuck—

Jason growls into Tim's mouth and cups his face, holds Tim *still* for this, even though he *does* want to know what Tim's trying to say, wants to hear him beg the way Jason always had to beg, wants to know what it's like for *Tim* to feel half-split open and desperate, hurt, *needy*—

"My boys, my beautiful. Beautiful *boys*," and Bruce shoves a hand into Jason's hair and *yanks*—

"Dad, *no*—*oh*—"

And it's awkward, but Bruce manages to pull Tim into a kiss, manages to take *that* for himself, and Jason can only stare and thrust, only *watch* as Bruce takes Tim's mouth fucking brutally—

"I know what it's like, Tim. I know what it—what it *is*—"

Muffled sounds, *strangled* sounds—

"You can't fight him, you can't ever fucking *fight*—"

And Tim goes limp everywhere but his dick, fingers twitching against the back of Jason's neck as the kiss somehow gets *deeper*—

But it doesn't last, because the sounds Tim's making are high, dangerous as a mouthful of broken glass—

"Fucking *do* it, Tim—"

And he's rigid again, *clawing* at the back of Jason's neck as he *screams* into Bruce's mouth, and the only real question is whether the tear that's rolling down his cheek started welling before or *after* he started coming hot and slick on Jason's abdomen and dick.

Gorgeous. Just—

And when Bruce pulls back from the kiss, Tim turns to face him. His eyes are wide and his pupils are blown. His mouth is open and his hair's a fucking *mess*—

And Bruce doesn't stop. He doesn't—

Tim narrows his eyes for every thrust, and there's a *plea* in his eyes. He's—

"Jay? Jay..."

"It's all right, baby bro. It's—you don't know how *good* you look."

Tim *closes* his eyes and tilts his head back—just in time for Bruce to bite Tim's throat hard enough—

That is *absolutely* going to leave a mark—which will absolutely fade by the time Janet Drake's sober enough for company. And that's probably not the *best* excuse for leaning in to bite the other *side* of Tim's throat, but Jason's fucking well going with it, letting the spit ribbon out the side of his mouth as he bites and sucks, licks—

"You—both of you. I—"

Bruce pulls back with a wet sound. "Say it *again*, Tim. *Please*."

Tim whimpers— "Please come, Dad—*mmph*—"

And when Jason looks up, Bruce has two fingers shoved *deep* into Tim's mouth and he's lost his rhythm. Fuck, he's probably lost his *mind*—

More so than usual. Jason grins. "You've given him something neither I nor Dick ever did..."

Tim nods and closes his eyes again, leaving his mouth open for every pant, every whimper—

"He's *never* gonna forget—and fuck, but I want a piece of you—"

"*Tim*—"

And Tim makes a choked noise as Bruce *slams* in—and Jason knows that *that* silence means he's coming, holding himself still everywhere but the dick that Tim has to feel *twitching*—

Tim's eyes roll back in his head and he—

Well, he probably *would* be swaying if Bruce wasn't holding *him* still for every fucking *drop*—

Bruce groans and starts kissing every part of Tim's face he can reach until Tim takes a breath and whimpers again—

"It will be easier," Bruce says, voice rough and fucking *heavy*—"I know you already know this. I. I need to hold you."

Tim nods again and reaches up to wrap his arms around Bruce's neck.

"Son."

Patience—is just one of the virtues he missed out on getting his share of, but he can wait. And stroke himself a little, getting his dick a little *covered* with Tim's come and thinking about what it will feel like to be inside Tim *after* Bruce, how wet and fucking *open* Tim will be—

Jason licks his lips and forces himself *down* a little. There's no way he'll get any softer, but maybe he can just get control of his emotions. Maybe.

Bruce is stroking Tim's chest and abdomen, squeezing Tim's thighs and reaching between to cup his sac and stroke *that* while Tim rests against Bruce's body and tries to catch his breath.

Jason licks his lips. "How sore are you, baby bro?"

"I'm still... I feel. I think I'm stoned on endorphins. Which is the only possible reason for me not being wildly embarrassed right now—"

"You have *nothing* to be ashamed of," Bruce says, and clutches Tim tighter—

"I. Beg to differ."

"Tim—"

"Tim," Jason says, and uses his free hand to tilt Tim's chin up so they can look each other in the eye— "Damn, you *do* look pretty stoned."

Tim's smile is so soft—

Jason shakes his head. "You're making me crazy, and that's a *good* thing. But—listen to B. If we *didn't* lose it a little for sex, it wouldn't be any good."

"I—that was more than a little," Tim says, blinking and... yeah, those are salt tracks on his cheeks.

Jason leans in and licks them away before backing up enough to meet Tim's eyes again. *Just* enough. "You were incredible."

"You haven't come—"

"Oh, I will. Hopefully *in* you."

Tim shivers—and his dick twitches. And he groans.

Jason grins again. "Yeah, like that. And what makes you think we don't *all* have massive Daddy issues, anyway?"

"I—" Tim blinks. "All right, when you put it that way..."

"*Exactly*. You just let loose enough to actually get something *out* of those issues—which is something the rest of us don't normally manage... well, no, I'm going to go on the record with the firm statement that I don't *know* what Dick does with Clark, and that I don't *want* to know."

Bruce hums. "Perhaps for the best."

Jason laughs. "Meaning you *do* know?"

"Clark... used to put a great deal of effort into trying to get me to seduce Dick."

"It wouldn't have been *hard*—"

"Perhaps not," Bruce says, and bites the curve of Tim's ear lightly. "But it invited a certain amount of speculation over what topics the two of them had... discussed."

"I'm... trying to decide whether I'm comfortable with the idea of my—simply—having 'issues' where my parents used to be. Should be," Tim says, and looks a question at Jason.

A part of him really wants to point out that that's kind of an unfairly difficult question considering how *hard* he is... but the rest of him has a soul *and* knows that it really isn't unfair, at all. "No one's saying that you have to 'just' have the issues. Bruce is never going to get over the loss of his parents, *Dick's* never going to get over the loss of *his* parents—"

"You did, Jay."

"Is that what you think?" Jason shakes his head. "I'm still... part of me is terrified that when Bruce moved all of my things, he lost or got rid of my mother's favorite deck of cards—"

"I put them back in your sock drawer," Bruce says. "That... that is where you preferred to keep them?"

"I—" No, he's *not* going to get choked up right now. "That. That's fine, B." Jason takes a breath and cups Tim's face. "And that's really my point. My parents were more fucked up than most, but that doesn't mean I don't hate Two-Face for killing my father—good memories or *no* good memories—and that doesn't mean I don't miss my mother, and that doesn't mean I don't still catch myself wondering, sometimes, what it would've been like to grow up with the woman who gave birth to me."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "But you still think my father doesn't deserve my grief."

Jason strokes Tim's cheek with his thumb. "That's just me. I don't get to decide how the world's gonna work, even if I *did* die and come back."

And Tim stares into him for a good, long while, but Jason just kneels there and takes it, because—

Because it doesn't matter that it's a truth he doesn't want—it's still true.

"I think, sometimes, that you paid for your emotional health with my father's blood—"

"Tim—"

"No, B, he's right. And he'd deserve to say it even if he wasn't. I probably *wouldn't* have such a clear view of what's going on in my own head if I hadn't watched you grieve. And if I hadn't come too fucking close to losing you."

Tim's expression gets pinched—and he kneels up off Bruce with a wince and a sigh before brushing Jason's hand from his cheek and coming close, wrapping his arms around Jason's neck and pressing a brief kiss to Jason's lips. "You won't lose me."

"You shouldn't—"

"Say things like that? Maybe not. But I know myself better than you know *yourself*, Jay. And I know that you won't lose me. Whether or not the question *should* touch on my parents... it doesn't. You're an entirely different world from them, and in that world, I only *have* issues. The real people behind them are..." Tim smiles again, small and soft and *bright*—"Rather far away."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. But I can't change the fact that I like living in your world, Jay. I just have to deal with what it says about me as a person."

"You should never doubt your own goodness, Tim," Bruce says, and Jason can definitely hear—

"Oh. Call me 'son' again, Bruce. Make it real. Make it—inescapable," Tim says, and looks back over his shoulder at Bruce—

"My son," and Bruce curls his fingers in against his own thighs, absolutely telegraphing the fact that he'd rather be holding Tim against himself and doing some more kissing and biting—

"Perhaps when we wake, you can... hmm. Take me in to Wayne Enterprises. I've wanted to meet Lucius Fox since I realized you were Batman."

"He's a brilliant and wonderful man."

Tim's smile gets sharper. "And you've never wanted to sleep with him?"

Bruce holds up a hand—and holds his index finger and thumb about half an inch apart.

Jason snorts. "Talk about fucking *Daddy* issues. You make the poor guy slap 'Brucie' around all day... okay, he could probably put you in your place in a way you'd like."

"As ever, Jay—the idea had occurred."

Really—fucking— "Somewhere? Lucius is having a *horrible* fucking nightmare right now and he doesn't know *why*."

Bruce shows his teeth. "Almost certainly better than the alternative," he says, and turns back to Tim. "What do you need?"

"To spend yet another night... in company."

Bruce nods. "I vastly enjoy having you in my bed," and he strokes a line down Tim's spine—over Tim's *first* scars. "Though Jay may prefer—"

"I'm staying here tonight," Jason says—blurts, really, and the smile on his face feels shakier than he likes, but—but. "We—Tim in the middle?"

Another nod. "If that's all right with you, Tim."

Tim bites his lip and looks down at the bed, moving one hand from the back of Jason's neck to stroke the comforter a little. "I can't help feeling—I shouldn't let myself become accustomed to sleeping with other people."

"It can be difficult to go from having the warmth of a loved one to having nothing of the kind—"

"Which is all the more reason to *take* that warmth while it's there," Jason says, and strokes Tim's side. "You'll always know how to put yourself out when you need to do it—you don't *lose* lessons like that, even if you don't want to sleep, at all—but there's no reason to deny yourself when company is *available*."

Tim's smile is a little private, even when he turns it back on Jason. "Something else you've learned recently, Jay?"

"Heh. *Very* recently," and Jason pushes his free hand between Tim's thighs, where it's warm and wet-slick from Bruce's come—

"Oh. Jay... I think a part of me actually forgot—um."

"That I was waiting for a chance at you?" Jason sucks his teeth and shakes his head. "Bad boys get *spanked*."

And he can see Bruce raise a distinctly interested eyebrow, but it's a lot more interesting to see Tim blush and lick his lips.

"What do you think, baby bro? You been bad?"

"No. I mean—I haven't, but I also—would you want to...?"

"Spank your little ass until you start making even more interesting noises than your usual?" Jason licks his *own* lips. "Oh, yeah. Enough that I might put the bug in Dick's ear next time he's down here so he can help me wrestle you down."

"Why not now? I mean—why not with Bruce? Not that I'm saying that I want to—I'm not actually sure—"

"Easy," Jason says, and moves his hands back to Tim's hips. "It's just sex. You're *good* at that."

Tim's laugh is high and just a little edgy. "I think it's more than just *sex*—"

"You'd prefer the knife?"

Tim licks his lips. "I have—context. For that."

"I know a good way to *get* context—"

"Have you—have the two of you...?" And Tim looks back over his shoulder at Bruce.

Bruce... it's not *quite* a cough, but it's close. "I... heard about the tradition of birthday spankings, in the context of them being something normal families engaged in—"

Jason fights back a snort. He doesn't do all that well. "You totally woke Dick up on his fourteenth birthday and gave him spanking. You actually did that."

"It was disturbing for both of us," Bruce says, and there's a *wry* light in his eyes. "Perhaps more for Dick—"

"Who got an erection he could pound *nails* with. And you, B?"

"I remain unsure how Dick managed to miss my... interest."

God, *that*—Jason snorts again, grabbing a pillow and smacking Bruce with it. "Because he was rock hard, embarrassed, and seriously *confused*, you lunatic."

Bruce catches the pillow before Jason can hit him with it again. "That does make a certain amount of sense. I did consider spanking you some of those times when we had... vehement disagreements, Jay—"

"Oh, *that* would've gone over like a lead balloon. And then we would've fucked like animals, and *then*? You wouldn't have been able to *effectively* scold me for *anything*."

Bruce hums—

"The images are... compelling," Tim says, and he definitely looks like he's picturing it. Whether it's him or Dick over Bruce's knee in his mind is something Jason frankly can't even guess at, but—it's definitely there in his mind.

Jason strokes his way down Tim's back, finding the scars and rubbing them a little before cupping Tim's ass and *lifting* a little—

"Oh. I—I'm just not sure I'll *like* it. All right, no, there's also—I mean, how much more perverse can my relationship with Bruce *be*?"

"This probably isn't the time to offer suggestions," Bruce says, and sets the pillow aside. "But they are... available."

Tim grunts and laughs— "All right, I knew I'd start getting hard again *quickly*, but—mm. The fact that you can talk like that in the same voice you use when you're *training* me, Bruce—"

"Think of it this way, kid: the reason why he sounds like that when you're training? Is that he's *thinking* of this. All the damned *time*."

"Jay, I'm not eighteen, anymore. I do consider other things—"

"Uh, huh, and how *many* of those other things *lead* to this? All that time workin' on the car and I'm supposed to believe you *weren't* thinking of bending Tim over it? Maybe using the *restraint* straps to keep him in place while you jerked him off nice and slow...?"

Bruce hums and strokes the back of Tim's neck with two fingers—

Tim shivers—

"Yeah, my *point*," Jason says, spreading Tim and dipping in just a little—

"Oh fuck—I. Which *one* of you would be spanking me?"

"Yes," Bruce says, *helpfully* unhelpful.

Jason grins at the wide-eyed shock on Tim's face and gives his prostate a nice little *press* to make those eyes get unfocused again, make Tim open his mouth and pant. "You first, B...?"

Bruce hums again and strokes his way between them, pinching Tim's nipples *hard*—

"*Please*. I—oh, God. I'm not sure—I mean, shouldn't. What if. I—"

Jason ducks in and bites Tim's lips, one after the other. "Bruce to get you wired up. *Me* to take you home, baby bro."

Tim pants a little more, then pants a little harder, faster—

Bruce is twisting Tim's nipples back and forth, and there's something kind of ridiculously hot about the feel of his hands brushing against *Jason's* chest while he does it—

Though the *heaviness* he's feeling in his dick could definitely have something to do with how dazed and fucking *easy* Tim looks right now...

Yeah. Jason slips out again and gives Tim a push—and watches him crawl right over into Bruce's lap like he'd gotten an order that went straight to his central nervous system. He lays himself over Bruce's thighs and lets his head hang, curls his toes and fingers in against the comforter—

"Beautiful," Bruce says, and strokes Tim's back in a way... well, it's a little like the way Jason has seen some women stroke a fur coat, or an exceptionally pretty car. It's possessive and *seriously* objectifying, and it makes Tim squirm and tense a little.

"Here, kid, focus on this," Jason says, and moves close enough that he can push his thumb into Tim's mouth, revel in the wet heat a little as Tim hums and sucks. "Don't be neat about it. Bite me, lick me... go to town."

Tim nods and follows orders—and relaxes all over as his focus gets nice and *direct*, and—

Bruce is looking at him.

Jason raises his eyebrows.

"I never knew you harbored this particular... kink, Jay."

"I don't think I did, really. Tim brings out the perv in me. I kinda want to try everything at least once."

Bruce nods. "I've... it's a sentiment I find familiar."

Jason grins. "I just bet, freak. C'mon, give it to him—"

And it's more of a *cracking* noise than a slap, sharp and breaking—

Tim tenses and jerks, moans and bites down—

And Jason cups the back of Tim's head with his free hand and strokes. "That's not so bad, is it?"

Tim's hum is kind of *fervent*, but it comes with several little bites that mean he doesn't especially want to talk—and that's just fine.

"Do it again, B—"

Three spanks in rapid succession, alternating cheeks, and Tim's writhe makes Jason want to tie him down and fuck him blind, call in Dick and Bruce to fuck him while he's recovering so Tim doesn't get one spare fucking moment—

"Yeah, *again*—"

And these spanks are lighter, but there are more of them. Five—six—seven—stop, and Bruce strokes and squeezes Tim's ass, cups and squeezes—and runs his fingers down Tim's cleft while Tim's moans hitch and he starts trying to get up on his knees—

He stops and lays himself out again, pants around Jason's thumb—swallows audibly and *drools* a little.

"That—is fucking hot."

Bruce hums and pushes his hand between Tim's legs, getting Tim's sac in hand and squeezing it, almost *pumping* it—

And Tim starts making some *wonderful* noises, rhythmic little grunting moans through his teeth—he's holding on to Jason's thumb again—

And Bruce lets go and strokes *up* Tim's cleft—pushes in with two big, hard fingers and makes Tim narrow his eyes and whimper, which—

Jason fucks Tim's mouth a little, pushing deep and stroking Tim's tongue, the inside of his cheek. "Nobody who likes getting fucked as much as you do should ever be left *alone*, baby bro."

Tim's lashes flutter as he sucks again, relaxes himself all over—

Bruce meets Jason's eyes—

Jason nods and Bruce fucking *brings* it , spanking too hard and fast for Jason to count in his seriously fucking *impaired* state. Jason switches his thumb for two fingers and tries to fuck Tim's mouth in Bruce's rhythm, tries to keep Tim steady and relaxed, because—

"God, I can't wait for my turn—"

"Patience—"

"Fucking bite me, B, that's *sweet*—"

"It is. And I believe I'm becoming aroused again."

Jason grins again. "Believe? You're not sure?"

"Ask me again in a moment—yes, I'm *quite* sure," Bruce says, and stops spanking Tim to stroke him again, to shift Tim closer and lift his hips against Tim—

Tim moans long and *loud*, kicking at the comforter with both legs and tensing and relaxing almost *randomly*—

"*Suck*, Tim—"

A nod and Tim's doing it, going down on Jason's fingers and relaxing—not quite completely this time. His ass has to sting too much for that, judging by how red it's getting. It's a *different* color than the flush spilling down his back, the depth of the color highlighting his scars—

"God, you're pretty, baby bro. Remind me that I want Bruce to do this to you sometime when you're all dragged up."

Tim makes a *questioning* noise that seems honestly shocked, which—

Jason snickers and strokes Tim's back. "You can be a bad little *girl*, too, you know."

Tim pulls back and off Jason's fingers— "I really wouldn't mind it if you started sleeping with women again, Jay."

"Heh. Anything to avoid the high heels?"

"I—the makeup is more objectionable than the clothing, actually—"

"You realize that you just convinced Bruce to make you up every chance he gets and then work on *making* you like it, right? I know this because things like that run in *families*."

"Oh... God."

"Uh, huh. Somewhere in New York, Dick is dreaming of mascara, pretty boy," Jason says, and flicks Tim's lower lip with his thumb. "You're in for a world of hurt."

Tim shifts—and stills when Bruce lays his hand on Tim's ass and pushes him down against his own thighs. "Oh. I. I suppose I'd better get used to it. Then. Um."

"More, B. Make him shout for it."

Tim shudders all over and opens his mouth—

And then it's *just* like Bruce is spanking the noises out of him, because every slap comes with another sound, a grunt or a groan, a gasping whine—

And every spank is *lifting* Tim a little—no, Tim is pushing up into it and then *grinding* against Bruce's thighs, and—fuck, it's almost like Tim is showing *off*.

Jason knows it really *isn't* that—he's pretty sure they're still a ways from Tim going down *that* road—but—

It's pretty.

It's hot.

It's fucking *perfect*, and it's making Jason want everything at *once*—but he can settle for wrapping his hand around Tim's throat and squeezing *just* lightly enough that Tim can still make those noises—

Keep *moving* like that—

Keep kicking and clawing, fuck, Jason *needs*—

And Bruce stops spanking and reaches between Tim's legs again, doing—something. Jason checks, and Bruce has tugged Tim's penis down so the head is in reach for his working thumb—

And Tim is louder now, gasping out cries and trying to get leverage, *obviously* trying to make Bruce stroke more seriously—

"Fuck, *now*, B—"

"Yes," Bruce says, lifting and moving Tim until his thighs are spread to either side of Jason's own—

Jason *dumps* lube on his dick and *pulls* Tim onto him, getting an even better cry—

Another one—

"Pinch him off, B. I don't want him to come—"

"God, *please*—"

Jason kisses the back of Tim's neck. "It's okay, baby bro. I've got you—"

"That—shouldn't be as reassuring as. As it is. Oh, please, oh—God, Jay, *please*—"

"*Absolutely*," Jason says, getting a good grip on Tim's hips and holding him *just* right for the stroke he wants, sharp and steady and long enough for Tim to really *feel* it, feel how open he still is and how open he *isn't*, anymore. It's gotta feel different than their usual, and Jason *wants* that. The unfamiliarity, the *harshness*—

And when Jason looks, Bruce is playing like his hand just happens to be the world's most *ruthless* cock ring, holding on tight and probably driving Tim crazy—

The way the heat of Tim's ass is driving *Jason* crazy, the feel, the *different* slickness that's Bruce's come against his shaft—

God, *yes*—

Jason starts pulling Tim onto him, starts taking faster, fucking *harder*, and there's a part of him which is screaming things like finally, like yes, over and over *yes*—

Bruce leans in and kisses Tim, swallowing Tim's cries, making them muffled and wet, quiet and a little strange—

"That's it, that's—fuck, baby, baby bro—"

And Tim's shudder makes him *slam* in, makes him need it so much he wants to fucking *cry*—

"This. This is what you *do* to me—"

Bruce pulls back just in time for Tim to fucking *wail*, struggle, twist in Jason's grip—

"Come. You have to let me—*please*, Jay—"

"Not *yet*," Jason says, and he knows he *sounds* harsh, harder probably than he'd been during *training*, but he needs this, needs— "Need you just like this—"

Tim sobs and shakes his head, *tosses* his head—

"*Just* like *this*," and Jason gives it to him harder, *knows* he has to be hurting Tim at least—

"*Please*—"

At least a *little*, and Bruce is watching everything, *seeing* everything. Is he siding with Jason? Does he want to protect his youngest son? Does he want this and everything else he can *get*?

Jason laughs and it turns into a groan that just goes on and *on*, because the rhythm is slipping out of his grasp the way Tim's hips really *aren't*—

Because he's this close to losing it—

"So fucking—so *close*—"

Another sob and Tim is rubbing at Jason's hands, *scratching* at them—

"Almost there, almost—" And the orgasm *rips* its way through him, making Jason toss his head back and thrust—

Again—

*Again*, and he can't stop, can't do anything but *feel* this, the heat and the *release*, because Tim will let him do anything, *have* anything—

Almost anything—

So much more than just *enough*, and when he's back in his own body enough to moan, Jason realizes that he was *also* back in himself enough to wrap his arms around Tim and squeeze as he bites, kisses, bites again and again until Tim's shoulder is as red as his ass. "Love you," he says—

"Please. I. I need to. I feel like—the edge. *On* it, for a long time now, and please, Jay, I *need*—"

"What do you want, baby bro?"

"I don't—I don't *know*—"

"Unfair question right now, okay," and Jason brushes Bruce's hand away from Tim's dick and gets a *good* grip—

"Oh, please, *yes*—"

"I won't stop until you come, baby bro. I've *got* you. And I want you to clench around me so hard you make me whimper like the bitch I am—"

Tim laughs and shudders, groans— "I whimper all the *time*—"

"It's an excellent look on you. Right, B?"

Bruce nods, silent and slow—and brings his hand to his own dick.

"Like *this*, B," and Jason starts stroking Tim fast and hard. No patience, but just a *little* finesse. Enough that Tim starts to make those little crooning noises for him—

And clenches hard enough to make Jason's eyes cross a little. Just—

"This feels a little old-school, baby bro... like maybe I should be acting like a prick and pretending I *don't* want to be buried in your sweet little ass."

Another laugh, breathy and *high*—"Please. Please don't—"

"Yes," Bruce says, and narrows his eyes. "You've given me the opportunity to watch your desire—your *love*—from a distance which could, in a particularly *tortured* way, be described as 'objective.'"

Jason grins and pauses to play with the head of Tim's dick—

To watch Bruce do the same thing to *himself*—

"You always did like the way I rolled, B."

Bruce smiles, sharp and *focused*. "You remain utterly compelling."

"Especially when I'm losing it for—heh—your *son*?"

"Your brother. Beautiful... boys," Bruce says, and closes his eyes for a moment—and still manages to start stroking himself again when Jason starts stroking *Tim*—

"So. I. I don't think this is what family is supposed to *mean*—"

"How would *you* know—" and Jason cuts himself off, because fucking *ouch*. "I—"

Tim snickers and it turns into something almost like a giggle, breathless and sweet, young, *perfect*—

"Tim," Bruce says, and it's a request for attention, or maybe just to be able to see the look in Tim's *eyes*—and when Bruce grunts and shudders, Jason knows Tim had given it to him.

"I know *nothing*," Tim says. "I am—ignorant. Woefully so. I—fuck, Jay, *squeeze* me—"

He does—

Bruce squeezes himself—

Tim *clenches*, and yeah, that was a whimper from him, because he's totally softening and *still* so deep, so fucking—

Bruce sighs, and Jason *knows* that sound, knows it means that Bruce is giving it up all over, losing it a little for just his own *hand*, and that means Jason has to speed up, has to—

"Jay—*Jay*—"

"Gonna come for me, baby bro—"

"*Yes*. Oh. I love your hands, Jay, I love the way you touch me, the way it's always so—so—"

"*Tell* me."

Tim reaches up and back to wrap his arms around Jason's neck, panting and tilting his head back, fucking *offering* his throat—

And Bruce is right there to cup and squeeze with his other hand, matching the rhythm, *Jason's* rhythm, and God, fuck, controlling both of them, taking—

"Bruce, I need him to tell me—"

"I'm sorry. I'm. He's so very close," Bruce says, and shifts to pinch off the blood to Tim's *brain*—

"Oh my—God. You—" Tim shakes his head and starts panting harder to no effect, and Jason doesn't know if he wants to know what that feels like or *not*, but—

"Tell me, baby bro, tell me about how I touch you—"

"No hesitation. No doubt. No—you just *do* it, like you know I'm—I'm sexual. Available—"

"You *are*—"

Tim whimpers, cries out— "For you, for anything, Jay, anything, I'll do anything—"

No more finesse, then. Just the hard and fast stroke that'll get Tim off *fastest*—

That'll make Bruce groan like the huge fucking *animal* he is—

Clench and Jason has to gasp, squeeze his eyes shut for just a *moment*—

"*Jay*," and Bruce is *pleading*—

"Yeah, I—yeah, fuck, B, he's so *tight* around me, so damned good—"

And Tim's noises are wordless, high, perfect—

"Always so *perfect* with you, baby bro—"

Tim *yells*, and this time the clench goes on and on, makes Jason's *eyes* water—

And Tim is coming all over his hand, spilling out everything he's got for Jason, making it *right* as he clutches at Jason's hair, fucking *pulses* around him—

And arches forward a little, pulling Jason with him *by* the hair—

"Easy, Tim, easy—"

Another wail and another *spurt*, and then Tim slumps and starts panting, scratching at the back of Jason's neck—no, those are just hand spasms. Jason lets go and brings his sticky hand up—

Bruce grabs it and starts licking and sucking it clean, still jerking himself off, still *staring* at Jason—

Jason grins. "Tastes like teen spirit...?"

Bruce narrows his eyes in something that looks a lot like *pain*—

"Jason," Tim says, and sucks in a breath. "Do you think your ephebophilia is excused by your sense of humor about it? I'm just curious."

Mm. Well... Jason grabs Tim's hair with his free hand and yanks him back up until Jason can lick his ear. "I *think*... that if I *didn't* have a sense of humor about it, I'd probably get laid way less often. And that when I *did*... it wouldn't be half as good. Boy Catamite."

Tim snorts. "Noted. Ah... I'd really like to suck Bruce off now."

Bruce grunts again and squeezes himself *hard*—

"Ah—*right* now, actually—"

Jason *bites* Tim's ear. "Why should I let you? You never got your spanking from *me*—" And he cuts himself off with a gasp, because *this* clench forces him the rest of the way out, and he *really* wasn't ready for that—

"Oh. I—" Tim licks his lips— "Please, Jay. Let me suck him. Let me taste him. I want him to choke me with his dick—"

"So you can't say anything else? What if I *want* you to talk?"

"I *know* what you want. You. I want my—father. I want to taste my Dad, feel him—"

"*Tim*," Bruce says, and he sounds about seventeen *different* kinds of desperate, which—fuck, if he *hadn't* just come—

"I want to be *close* to him. I want him to hold me, keep me *safe*—"

"There *is* no safety," and Bruce's hand is shaking on Jason's own—he lets go and strokes Tim's face gently, carefully— "My son. Jay, please."

Jason shakes it off and tries to *think*—

Jason gives up and lets go, and Tim moves the few inches it takes for him to be in range of Bruce's grab. Bruce pulls him close and kisses the top of his head, his forehead, his face and the top of his head again—and his hand is still working, still *pumping*—

Until Tim reaches between them—

"Tim. My beautiful son. *Take* what you need—"

Tim kisses Bruce hard on the mouth, shaking his head—

His hands are still working between them and Jason wants to know what he's *doing*. He moves closer and tugs them apart by main force, just enough to see Tim stroking Bruce's hand, his dick, reaching for Bruce's sac—

And then Tim pulls back and dives *in*, taking Bruce deep in one gulp and swallowing him with the next—

Bruce gasps and cups Tim's face, strokes him there and over his shoulders, his back—he tries to pull Tim closer, but there's nowhere he can *go*, and God, it's good to watch.

Jason moves around behind Bruce and wraps his arms around him, kissing his throat and breathing in the smell of his sweat, his *sex*—

"Love. I. There are times when it crushes me under its weight," Bruce says, and pushes his hand into Tim's hair, carding and tugging.

"Mm, feels like responsibility, B?"

"It feels. I—"

Tim makes a sound deep in his chest and starts stroking Bruce's thighs restlessly, *hungrily*—

"Tim. Jay—I am not myself. I am only myself. It seems—a paradox of desire. A labyrinth of need—"

"*Go* with it—"

"I have no choice," and Bruce smiles like someone who'd just gotten proof that God existed *and* gave a shit. "And so I am free to live within. This perfect feeling—"

Another noise, and Tim wraps his arms around Bruce's hips and starts working his head on Bruce's dick, fucking himself on it with a need that seems fucking *pathological*—

"You better believe I did it just like that, baby bro. That I *needed* it like that."

Tim hums and his eyelashes flutter again as he pauses, sucks *harder*—

"*Yes*, Tim," Bruce says and tugs harder. "Show me everything. Show me—I feel I am tasting you with parts of myself beyond sensation. I am—there is an inebriation to this—"

"Because you *couldn't* just say you were fuck-drunk..."

"No, I could not," and Bruce reaches up with the hand he doesn't have in Tim's hair and pulls Jason in for a *deep* kiss, hard and slow—and hitching as Bruce gets closer to losing it for Tim.

Jason coaxes Bruce's tongue into his mouth and just sucks it for a while, grateful and a little scared for the way he can *do* this without losing his own mind. It's one thing to have just had an orgasm, and another thing entirely to be something resembling an *adult*—

And so it's a relief when Tim starts making muffled humming noises, *pleased* noises that make Jason need to press his soft dick against Bruce's back, need to feel his scars *there*, taste him with his body—

Bruce pulls out of the kiss and pants— "Jay, can you *see*?"

He's not talking about what Tim is doing, not really, but Jason has to look, anyway, has to watch his boy taking Bruce like the pro he'll never, ever be—

"I—Jay, please..."

Jason licks his lips and turns back to Bruce. "I see that he needs you, needs to make you feel all the good you make *him* feel. I see that he loves you—"

Bruce's moan is broken, almost *anguished*—

"Yeah, like that. I see that you're helpless, that you *have* to have everything he can stand to give *up*. I see that right now he's happy, because of *you*—"

"Both. Both of us. I—" Bruce moans again and *pushes* into Tim's mouth, right down into his throat—and Tim looks up at them, eyes deep and dark and *full*—

"You'll never lose him, baby bro..."

Tim nods and closes his eyes, face flushed and mouth *stretched*—

Jason licks his lips. "It's okay. It's okay for you to *need* each other like this. It—it's *right*—"

Bruce *clutches* him. "I can't—I must. Oh, this—such pleasure—"

"Give it up, B. Show him how good he is. Show him how much you *need*—"

Bruce nods, eyes unfocused and lips parted, and Jason can't—

He pushes his hand between Bruce's legs and presses up, drags his fingers *back*—

And Bruce starts thrusting hard, ragged—

And Tim takes every last one of them, swallowing and humming and drooling like there's nothing he'd rather be doing—

And a part of Jason can't help but wonder if Bruce and Tim would've had this if he hadn't fucked up so badly, if he hadn't left the *door* open for Bruce to walk through and pick up all the pieces of Tim he'd found too inconvenient to deal with—

They can eulogize their parents together, now, and if the facts of this victory aren't what he'd wanted, or even what he'd *imagined*... it's still a victory. Jason works Bruce's prostate and watches, drinking everything in and willing himself to remember every moment, to *take* this in case—

Just in case—

Bruce *grips* Tim's hair and pushes in deep, holding himself there and tensing hard—

*Harder*—

He's coming, and Tim is taking it all from his new father, his *better* father, who will never, ever choose a ski trip to Aspen over his son, and will only let Tim go when he's dead.

Jason kisses Bruce's shoulder and just stays there while Bruce and Tim recover a little. It doesn't take long, because all of them are feeling the sun rising beyond Bruce's luxurious—and *effective*—curtains. It's time to wash up a little and sleep—

But Bruce turns enough to pull both Jason and Tim against him for a long and silent moment first.

They use the bathroom together reasonably efficiently, silently passing around the toothpaste and handing out washcloths—though Bruce uses his to wipe Tim clean in a way that's *terrifyingly* paternal—

"You know, I would've had to kill him if he tried that with me after sex—as opposed to when I was beaten down from a patrol," Jason says, and raises his eyebrows.

Tim just smiles. "In for a penny..."

Bruce kisses his hip.

Tim takes the middle of the bed without a word, and for a moment Jason has to wonder what it *will* be like for Tim to sleep alone again. It'll happen—different missions, different sleep schedules, the fucking *perennial* issue of getting Bruce off the console when he's determined to prove that *this* time it'll take more than exhaustion to put him out...

But not tonight.

Jason crawls in one side of Tim, Bruce takes the other, and Tim's asleep in minutes—

And Bruce turns his attention on Jason.

"I know, B. I—you don't have to say a word."

"I have my doubts about that."

Jason smiles, and maybe—*just* maybe—lets himself live in the fact that he has a home right here, complete with all the trimmings. He turns on his side and rests his hand on Tim's chest. "I'm thinking about it. All right?"

Bruce nods and turns off the light.

Jason falls asleep to the unique, wonderful, and terrible feeling of being watched in the dark.


	33. Chapter 33

It would be seriously generous to say he spends about an eighth of his time at his cold and empty base, so he doesn't say it, and he doesn't think about it. He trains, he trains *Tim*, he patrols, he spends a lot of time having sex.

Making love.

The sensor is silent.

He spends a good portion of one night with Roy in his ear telling him to come to New York in between both of them beating the crap out of people, and it feels so good he almost heads up—

But when a flash of red resolves into Tim wading into a gang-fight to take his back, he knows he's not going anywhere.

The sensor is silent.

Dick comes down for a few days and continues to teach Tim how to *really* fly.

Tim hits five feet one inch, and Alfred bakes a cake that could be held up as proof of a beneficent multiverse.

Janet Drake calls from the rehab place—for the first time—and manages not to make Tim cry or try to throw the phone through any windows. He's tense as hell when she gets off the phone, though, and doesn't talk about it until after Jason spanks him, fucks him, and convinces Dick to *use* his throat. The upshot is that she's planning to stay for another sixty days, and is thinking about taking a—very, very secure—cruise after *that*.

There was, of course, no mention of taking Tim with her.

Dick holds Tim for the better part of an hour and says a lot of good things that probably mean nothing at all *to* Tim, and then Bruce joins them and nobody talks about anything more serious than Bruce's many, many perversions. Tim sleeps like a baby on heroin.

The sensor is silent.

Tim patrols with Dick and scares the living shit out of him, since their assignment for the night involved a large number of Gotham's pimp class. Tim comes home bloody and thrumming with energy, Dick hugs him sincerely and heads back to New York, promising to come back when he can.

Jason spends some time trying and failing to convince Tim that that *wasn't*, actually, a blow-off, before giving up and giving Tim a short biography of Kory, including the highlights of her core values. *That* gets him a thoughtful nod and the end of the pinched look that was starting to show up on Tim's face, but he knows it won't really sink in until Dick *does* come back.

The sensor—

The mini-sensor he keeps on Bruce's bike—*his* bike—starts flashing at him when he's a mile and a half out from the manor, and he's rolling east before he can think about it. He's—

He has to *see* it. He has to know nothing dangerous is going to jump *out* of it.

He—

His jacket is about as stocked as it can be.

The road ends before he reaches the anomaly, and Jason forces himself to move *cautiously* through the woods, even though he wants to run.

Even though he doesn't know which *direction* he wants to run—

And then Bruce steps out from behind a tree, and there's not one moment when Jason doesn't know *which* Bruce it is.

The uniform *alone*—

And the look in his eyes when he pulls back the cowl.

"Bruce."

"Jay. I—I had to find you. I knew you were gone and." Bruce clenches his jaw and stares at him. "Come back."

Motherfuck.

Mother*fuck*, he—movement, but it's red, and he's almost set to relax when he realizes that this Tim is six inches taller than the one he actually knows—

And his face is much, much harder.

And Jason's pretty damned sure *he* looks like a cornered rat. "Tim."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Jason."

But— "Why. Why are you here?"

It's almost more of a damned *tic* than a facial expression, but— "I wasn't about to let Bruce make this particular trip alone," Tim says, and when he shifts Jason can see that the staff is extended.

Jason shakes his head and holds up his hands. "I'm. I'm sorry."

Bruce takes a step closer—

"Don't," Jason says, and tries to get something like his fucking bearings, tries to *think*—"You manufactured this anomaly."

Bruce nods. "I couldn't let you be lost again, Jason. Jay—"

"Go home, B. Go—while you can. While it's safe."

"Not—"

Jason makes a pushing motion. "You have to go. Both of you—"

"And you?" Tim has his head cocked slightly to the side. "What are *your* plans, Jason?"

How long before the Bruce and Tim from *this* world note that the bike is stopped in the damned woods and they come looking for him? How much time does he have to... what? Exactly?

Jason pushes a hand back through his hair—

"Jay," Bruce says, and this time there's no stopping him. He's *right* there in Jason's space, being huge and hungry and *Bruce*.

"Go home," Jason says again. "You don't have a place here."

Tim shifts enough that the cape is fully behind him—out of the way. "And you do?"

Yes. No, not that, not—

He has to *go*, but—

"I made a promise to you once, Jay," Bruce says, and rests his hands on Jason's shoulders. "I promised that I would be there for you, for whatever you needed—"

"You kind of—it didn't *work* that way, B—"

"No, it did not. There were things you needed I couldn't give you, and there were times when I *wasn't* there—too many. I need your forgiveness, Jay—"

"You fucking—you *have* it—"

"*Jay*—"

"And Tim—I *can't* actually apologize enough for all the things I've said and done, but. I want to."

Tim raises an eyebrow and purses his lips just a little— "Forgive me, Jason, but you're doing an excellent job of making me exceedingly curious about just what you've been up to in *this* world."

Pure Tim, ice-cold and as sure as anyone could want—and yeah, Bruce is doing that thing where he only *seems* to be focused on one thing, but is really paying very close attention to both of them. Jason shakes his head. "Making friends and influencing people. Renewing old acquaintances. Mostly? Getting my head screwed on straight again," Jason says, and turns back to Bruce. "Everything you said about him was right, Bruce. And more... there's so much more."

Bruce nods slowly and squeezes Jason's shoulders. "This world... has moved more slowly?"

"I got here right after I died, yeah. I—" And Jason manages to cut himself off before he says the words without thinking, manages to get something like a *grip* on himself, because the ground is shifting beneath his feet, because—

"What is it, Jay?"

Jason swallows and he knows he looks like he's pleading, because he *feels* about thirteen years old, small and unsure and desperate to fucking *survive*—

And Tim is just watching, looking just as suspicious as he should be, just as *dangerous* as they all know he can be—

"I'm not going anywhere," Jason says, and listens to parts of himself scream while other parts cheer, while still *other* parts wander around like victims of blunt force *trauma*—"I'm not going anywhere."

Bruce *grips* Jason's shoulders—

"What have you done, Jason? What *makes* this world so much more... palatable?" And Tim moves close enough for a strike—from either of them.

There's a certain ass-backwards temptation to ask him if he's *really* sure Bruce will protect him, but that's just distraction, something to keep him from being as focused as *he* needs to be. "I trained you. The Tim from this world."

Tim raises his eyebrows and his nostrils flare, and if he's *not* remembering what he'd been like, what his *life* had been like... Then nothing, because he *is* remembering it— "Me. You went to *me*."

"I wanted to mold you into someone *I* thought would be the right kind of partner for Bruce. It worked—except for the ways in which it completely didn't. We. We got close," Jason says—

And Tim shakes his head fucking *minutely*, but he also swallows.

"You were on your way to the manor," Bruce says, sounding *almost* like the Bat.

"Yeah, I was. To be more accurate, I was on my way *back* to the manor, B. Bruce—shit, this is fucked," and Jason brushes Bruce's hands off his shoulders and backs up a pace or two. "Everything was the same here—up to a point. All of my memories of the world, of the two of *us*—"

"He has those memories, too," and Bruce sounds like he's working up a good *hate* for the Bruce in this world—

"He does. There was... there was no moment, once he found me, of strangeness. Not really." Jason covers his face with his hands. "Go home. And take my useless fucking apologies with you for—for everyone."

"Have you considered the damage to the timeline if you—"

"Yes, Tim, I really, really have. And there have already *been* changes that I'm really not going to bother burdening you with, baby—*shit*."

"'Baby.' You. All right, no, screw this. What the *hell* have you been doing—"

Bruce turns— "Tim—"

"*No*. I'm—what? Thirteen years old in this universe? Jason, what—"

"I was *going* to say 'baby bro,'" Jason says, and drags his hands down off his face. "But that doesn't mean I'm not in a relationship with him."

Tim rears back—

Bruce really, really doesn't. If anything, he's starting to look *happy* for the first time since he'd stepped from behind that *tree*—

Jason sucks in a breath. "Yeah. It's like that. I have. I have everything I need here except for the proof that I can make things work in my own universe—and I'm. I'm ready, willing, and able to go without that."

Bruce and Tim stare at him for a long moment—and then they *all* hear someone moving in the woods toward them. It's quiet—stealthy—but it's not—

"*Go*. I'm not going back. I'm not—it's done."

"Jay—"

"No, Bruce. Not anymore. Not—"

And maybe he should've seen the kiss coming, but maybe he also should get a pass for having stared at the proof of all his fuck-ups—no.

There are no free passes, just as there's no getting away from the fact that this is Bruce, four years older than the one currently waiting for him in the manor but still kissing Jason like he's fifteen—no, that's not it, either. It's not about age and it's *completely* about *possibility*.

Bruce is kissing him like it could make a difference, like maybe Jason had just forgotten—

He could never fucking *forget*, and this Bruce had had four years of a whole lot of nothing, save for abortive relationships with that doctor who'd fixed his back and fucking Selina Kyle. This Bruce has a son he can't *touch*—

"Oh," Tim says, and it's *his* Tim—

And Bruce shoves one gauntleted hand into his hair and holds on *tighter*—

"Nice uniform," the Tim from Jason's universe says—

"Ah. Likewise. I have to say. I have to. Please don't take him back."

The older Tim growls—cuts himself off. "You *don't* know what he's like, Tim—"

"And *you* don't know what you're talking about—"

Jason shoves out of the kiss and shakes his head, staring at the shine of his saliva on Bruce's mouth—

And turning to stare at the two Tims, both of whom have their staves out and ready. Jason puts his hands on *his* Tim's shoulders and pulls him back. "He's not your enemy *and* he can take you—"

"I can make it difficult," Tim says, and twists his forearm strangely—and releases a blade that sticks out wicked and sharp beyond his fist.

Jason blinks. "Uh—that's new."

"Bruce made it from designs I left lying around. I'm reasonably sure he doesn't approve—"

"That's how you trained him, Jason?" The other Tim shakes his head. "I suppose I shouldn't be shocked."

"*Stop* acting as though you don't have the capacity for what I do. You just never had a reason," and Tim shrugs off Jason's hands. "I believe Jay was telling you both to go home."

Movement—that ends with Bruce cupping Jason's Tim's jaw and forcing his head back—

"Let go of me."

"Do you love him."

"That's none of your business, Bruce—but yes, I do. With all of myself—and I know you find that familiar. Why don't you take your Tim home and do something about the staff he keeps in his ass?"

*Not* really a time to laugh—except that the other Tim's eyebrow is up high enough that it looks like it's making a break for his fucking hairline. Still—Jason covers his mouth until the urge to lose it *passes*—

"You taught him how to curse, too. Clearly, your capacity to be a role model exceeds all expectations, Jason."

"And you're a tight-assed *bitch*, Tim, but I wish I'd given myself half a chance to know you," Jason says, and offers his hand.

The older Tim shakes his head—

Bruce lets go of *his* Tim—

"Please," Jason says. "Once for the chance to do it. Once for everything."

Tim takes them all in, gaze lingering on Jason's Tim for a long moment that speaks of a deep desire to interrogate at *length*—and then he reaches to grip Jason's forearm.

Jason twists his hand to return the gesture and thinks of knives and broken bones, recriminations that made no sense and his own fucked up inner child— "I'm sorry."

"Noted," Tim says, letting go and turning to walk toward the anomaly without waiting for Bruce to do the same.

Bruce reaches out to touch Jason's mouth, and somehow he'd found the time to take off his gauntlet. His hand smells like plastic, but when Jason licks his lips, he'll taste the same salt he'd pretty much lived on for a good long while—

"I." His Tim retracts the blade and reaches up to put a hand on Bruce's chest. "My Bruce—*our* Bruce... I love him, too. You should consider that."

Bruce turns to look at him.

The older Tim laughs quietly. "Ah, filial relations. We *do* tend to put our own spin on them, don't we?"

Jason grins, feeling his lips drag against Bruce's fingers. "That's just how we roll."

"Goodbye, Jay," Bruce says, and there's no Bat on his voice. Hell, there's practically no *adult* in his voice, and Jason can't smile anymore.

"Goodbye, Bruce. I never. I'll never stop loving you."

Bruce nods once and turns, resting his hand on the older Tim's shoulder as they walk through the anomaly and into their own Bristol woods. The hole in reality stays open until they move out of sight, and then there's a pop, a sigh, and wind on his face that just tastes green.

There should be more.

There should be—

Tim moves close to him, looking up at him—his lenses are up. "Jay. Did that mean... I mean, I overheard, but—"

"Not everything, I guess," Jason says, and drops into a crouch so Tim can look down at him. "I'm staying. Unless something... I don't know. Maybe if I fuck things up too much this universe will kick me *out*. But if not, I'm staying at least until I die horribly again."

Tim makes a slightly choked noise, but doesn't throw his arms around Jason, or cry, or... anything resembling that. He only nods, and the smile on his face is small enough to be pretty damned elusive—hell.

"You don't believe me."

"Not yet, no. Ask me again in a year or so," and Tim turns to look at his gauntlets.

"Knives in both of them?"

"I underestimated the stiffness. Or rather, the way the stiffness makes me *feel*."

"Some of your strikes will come harder with those."

Tim frowns and nods. "Ultimately, I think these will have to be shelved, yes."

"They *do* look cool," Jason says, and strokes one.

Tim hums. "How long before I *would* be able to take that Tim?"

Jason thinks about it... "You're meaner, but not sneakier. He knows *I* trained you, so he'd be ready for at least half of the nastier moves you know now, and that number might actually go *up* as you get better. He's got all your speed, he's bigger... it'll be a while."

Another hum, and Tim stands up straight. "Then I have work to do."

"Tim—"

"It's not going to work, I don't think. If that Bruce *does* try to seduce Tim, Tim will be convinced that he's the rebound choice for quite some time. I'm not sure *what* Bruce could do to change his mind."

Extreme subject change. Sure, okay. Jason stands up and starts heading back toward their bikes. "What convinced *you* that Bruce wanted you for yourself?"

"It helped to see the way he behaved when he had all three of us," Tim says, and follows.

"Not the way he acts when it's just the two of you?"

"Mm, well... part of me still thinks he's just being... nice."

Baby bro, I'd really like to dig your father up, tie your mother to his moldering corpse, and then drop them off Wayne Tower—

"I. I do recognize that much of this has to do with the fact that my... issues are coming into play."

"That's an *excellent* start—"

"I just can't help but think that *his* issues would be even worse. I mean... wouldn't they be? Well, no, you said he had a girlfriend... hm. Is it possible that he's closeted?"

Jason blinks. He'd... really never thought of that. "It would have to be... I mean, okay, *I* didn't really twig to it, but then I never spent any time thinking about him and sex. Bruce and Dick and Babs—they'd kinda *have* to know."

"But would they really bring it up if he never did?"

"Yes? Maybe? I'm going with a definite maybe. He spends a lot of time with Dick, who is most assuredly his *big brother*. Dick would've had to bring it up at some point..."

"That sounded like a question," Tim says, and steps out onto the road.

No bike save his own—Tim had run out here to be as stealthy as possible. "You know, you're a *damned* good boy," and Jason swings his leg over the bike.

Tim gets on behind him and wraps his arms around Jason's waist. "I do try. I—we don't have to talk about that other universe."

"The home I just left behind for good... no, we don't have to talk about it at all. But—put it this way: that Tim is good, but there's no way he's good enough to hide everything he feels from a Bruce on a mission to find *out*. Eventually, Bruce would figure out Tim's doubts, and then he'd *redouble his efforts*."

"And he's already Tim's father, which... all right, I suppose I can see it. They'll both still miss you."

"Tim won't—"

"You just gave him a very good reason *to* miss you. Because I sincerely doubt that he's forgotten his hero worship of you. Or his desire for you."

"I broke his *arm*," Jason says, and hands Tim the extra helmet. "*After* slashing his throat."

Tim is silent for a moment, another—"*Are* there anger management seminars for vigilantes?"

Jason snorts and starts the bike. "Yeah. Only we call it 'going evil and getting killed.'"

Tim hums again and squeezes him. "If you break my arm, I'll cut off one of your testicles."

"*Good* call—"

"I'll tell Bruce that it's our new game. Of course, that will almost certainly lead to our sex becoming even more disturbing, but it's a small price to pay."

"God. If you convince Bruce to castrate himself, I will be *extremely* unhappy."

"Yes. You might even leave—"

"Hey, now—"

"A year," Tim says, and scratches at Jason's abdomen. "You can give that to me."

Jason sighs and takes the bike up to seventy. "Yeah. Yeah, I can."

~end. ~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Catch Me Wakeful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3306488) by [LadyShadowphyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyShadowphyre/pseuds/LadyShadowphyre)




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